




























































CI)FmiGHT DEPOSm 




















A LONELY MAID 



MRS.^ HUNGERFORD 

(“THE DUCHESS”) 

AUTHOR OF MOLLY DARLING,” THE HOYDEN,” 

Peter’s wife,” a point of conscience,” etc. 







PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1896 


Vi ' ° 





Copyright, 1896, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 



Electrotyped and Printed by J. B. Lippinoott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A. 


A LONELY MAID 


CHAPTER I. 

“ As merry as the day is long.” 

‘‘ So nice to find ourselves all here together once 
again !” says Mrs. Clarence, with a satisfied sigh, 
throwing her pretty head a little backwards and side- 
ways, — her charmingly insincere face smiling out of its 
aureole of flaxen hair. She is popularly supposed, in 
her own set, to have the only pure flaxen hair in the 
United Kingdom ; and, indeed, to give the Devil of 
gossip his due, no one has ever suggested the word 
dye ! 

In town — in the season — this delicate yellow hair 
of hers has created a small sensation for more years 
than she now cares to be reminded of, though in 
reality she is only thirty. For the rest, she has little 
to complain of in her life ; her means being ample, 
her charms beyond reproach, and her very uncon- 
genial husband at this moment at the Antipodes. 

In this small country place — an insignificant spot in 
the south of Ireland — she is regarded by the villagers 
in the little town below with feelings that sway be- 
tween awe and delight. 

I* 


5 


6 


A LONELY MAID, 


‘‘ *Tis a vision she is,” said Mr. Twoomey, the opu- 
lent owner of the small hotel in Carrigmahon, when 
Mrs. Clarence had swept through the town in her 
cousin’s — old Sir Lucien Adare’s — carriage. “ Wid 
her hair as yellow as the statchew in the chapel be- 
yont. Faith, now that I think of it, she might be 
own cousin to the Blessed Virgin.” 

Mrs. Clarence and the Virgin Mary ! When Sir 
Lucien by some chance heard of this strange combina- 
tion, he chuckled to himself. It gave him food, indeed, 
for much cynical mirth ; the joke lasting him (with 
care^ for many days, and enabling him to add extra 
little stings to the remarks that fell from his sour old 
lips every now and then, — remarks already too full 
of bitterness to suit the palates of most. 

His present guests take them nonchalantly enough. 
Custom stales most things, and they being his nearest, 
if not his dearest, are so far accustomed to them as 
to prove positively hardened. Sir Lucien, who, as a 
rule, detests this Irish home of his, took a freak into 
his head last month, and, after eight years’ absence 
from it, decided on gathering together such of his 
kinsfolk as accompanied him on his last visit, and 
spending a month or two in the pleasant wilds of 
Carrigmahon. 

Carrig Castle — The Castle, as it is called for 
short” by the peasantry — is a sufficiently charming 
home to tempt most people, had they been its pos- 
sessors, to visit it at least once a year. But not its 
delights have brought Sir Lucien to it in this sunny 
mid-August. Old associations have given him a dis- 
taste for Carrig that amounts to positive aversion, and 


A LONELY MAID, 


7 


but for several important reasons, it is quite certain 
he would not have come here at all. A defaulting 
agent for one. A battery of letters from his county 
solicitor for another. The knowledge that Brian 
Deane was home again and staying at the old mill, 
for a third, and strongest of all. He had always 
believed that fellow knew something of the missing 
jewels ! 

“ Yes. Isn’t it ?” says a very pretty girl, answering 
Mrs. Clarence’s languid remark. There is very little 
languor about Mary Adare, or May, as she is gener- 
ally called. Hilary and I were delighted to come, 
weren’t we, Hilary?” 

She leans towards her brother, a tall young man 
sitting in a lounging chair near one of the open win- 
dows, through which the moonlight is streaming so 
vividly as to almost put the many shaded lamps out 
of countenance. 

‘‘ Immensely,” returns Captain Adare, politely, if 
indifferently. He is lazily pulling a little terrier’s 
ears, the dog answering these endearments by making 
snaps at his fingers. It is possible that Hilary, Mary’s 
brother and Sir Lucien’s heir, scarcely heard his 
sister’s question, his mind being at the moment many 
miles away, — in a conservatory at that last dance he 
went to before leaving town, before ‘‘ being dragged 
down here,” as he termed it. Amongst the flowers on 
that last memorable evening, he had told himself that 
the girl whose fan he was then caressing was the 
prettiest creature in the world. A week after he still 
thought so ; six weeks later — it is quite that now — 


8 


A LONELY MAID, 


he is sitting here, trying to think so still, and failing 
a little. Six weeks is a long time when one is only 
twenty-eight. 

‘‘ How many years since last we were here ?’' asks 
someone from the background, someone dangling 
gracefully over the sill of the window, and twanging 
gaily, with a remorseless disregard for time and tune, 
on a banjo. 

‘‘ What a horrid question says Mrs. Clarence, with 
a delicate ruffling of her fair brows. It must be 
Owen’s !” 

She peers round, softly parting with her fan the two 
men next her to make them stand aside until she 
can see the place where her brother, the Hon. Owen 
McGrath, sits revealed. 

Good old girl !” says the hero of the banjo. 
‘^You’ve guessed it. Go up one. Well, what’s the 
matter with my question, anyway ?” 

He creates another discord on his abominable 
instrument with great effect. Everyone jumps ! He 
is so charmed with this success that he instantly 
twangs again. This time everyone goes mad. 

“ Oh ! do, do stop that dreadful noise,” cries May, 
covering her little shell-pink ears with her hands. 

‘‘You know you love it,” says Mr. McGrath, un- 
moved. He turns his head so far inwards that one 
can see that he is fat, fair, and twenty-four or so. His 
face is innocent of hair, and so, very nearly, is his 
head. His sister says he suggests a penitentiary, and 
that if he hasn’t been in one, he ought to have been. 
However, both she and his father. Lord Kilfern, make 
much of him now and then, and so do a good many 


A LONELY MAID, 


9 


far better people. “ Come here and Fll sing to you ! 
You won’t? . . . You shall!'' He has seized her 
frock and pulled her down beside him. There is a 
cousinship between them, as indeed there is between 
everyone now staying in Sir Lucien’s house. 

Owen, don’t be stupid !” May gives him a 
vigorous little push ; but Mr. McGrath, with his arm 
so far thrust through hers as to enable him to get a 
purchase on the banjo, is already uplifting his terri- 
ble voice to the moonlit skies. 


“ And the owl looked up to the stars above 
And sang to his light guitar, 

Oh ! Pussy my darling, oh ! Pussy my love. 

What a beautiful Pussy you are, you are. 

What a beautiful Pussy you are !” 

A young man had come rather quickly up to the 
window when Miss Adare had been brought so 
swiftly to a seat beside the interpreter of the banjo. 

‘‘ Oh, is that you, Gilbert?” exclaims she. “Yes, 
help me up. I must say, Owen,” turning wrath- 
fully to her late companion, “ if you think that 
music. . . .” 

“ Won’t you wait for the next verse ? Do,” says 
Mr. McGrath. “ It’s teeming with interest. ... It 
is a proposal . . . from you to me. ... You won’t 
wait ? . . . Good heavens, how blind people are to 
their own interests nowadays ! I might — impossi- 
ble as it sounds — actually have said ‘Yes.’ . . .” 

No one is listening to him, no one ever does, as a 
rule, — which says much for the wisdom of his ac- 
quaintances and friends. 


lO 


A LONELY MAID. 


But if the present company think to disconcert 
him by this disregard of his remarks, they are, indeed, 
mistaken. He rises like the Phcenix from its ashes 
to even fresher life, and the knowledge (which covers 
him with mirth) that Gilbert Grey is now at the other 
side of the room, getting as near to an open quarrel 
with May as he dares. Indeed, so far does the fight 
go that now May, leaving Gilbert Grey and treading 
the floor as she comes with the dainty air of a 
Titania insulted, drops into a seat next Eustace 
Everard, who, as one has come to know, is always 
very close to Mrs. Clarence. 

He is a man of about forty, with blue eyes (paling 
now) and a pensive expression. He gives immensely 
to charities, — especially to orphanages, — is a sound 
Radical, and has about the worst reputation in 
Europe. His pensive expression, however, stands 
to him, and then he is so good to the little fatherless 
ones ! A man who considers the orphans 7nust be 
good ! And, besides, he is so very rich ! 

For me, I am delighted to be here again,** May is 
murmuring to him with the exaggerated delight of a 
girl who doesn’t mean a word she is saying. “ I 
told you so a moment ago, didn’t I, Dolly ?” — to 
Mrs. Clarence May always appeals. “ I was awfully 
bored last season.” She says this a little more 
clearly, so that Gilbert Grey may hear. He had 
been particularly attentive to her last season . . . 
and she, if she told the truth, had been very atten- 
tive to him. . . . Mrs. Clarence regards her with a 
pitying stare. 

” My dear May !” 


A LONELY MAID. 


II 


Oh, yes, I know,*' frowning and tilting an angry 
shoulder. “You need not look at me like that. I 
hate town ! I love country ! There it is,’' petulantly, 
“ in the palm of your hand, however unfashionable 
you may think me.” 

“You mean?” asks Mrs. Clarence. 

“ Oh !” impatiently, “ I don’t know what I mean. 
Except that the cool, green country has charms for 
me.” 

“ So it has for the beetle,” says Mrs. Clarence, sadly. 

“ So it has for me,” says Everard in his slow way, 
getting a glance of gratitude from May in return. 
Then he turns to Mrs. Clarence again. “ You might 
have made it a robin,” he reminds her, with a smile 
and in a low tone. 

She glances up at him ; a mere touch that lets him 
see the velvety violet of her beautiful eyes. 

“ I could have made it prettier, certainly. But 
now that you have joined factions with her, I am 
glad I didn’t, anyway,” with a lingering half-come 
half-go glance. “ I don’t think the robin simile 
would suit you like a robin.” 

At this Mr. Everard laughs a little, and, after a 
little, too, withdraws to the safe solitude of the ve- 
randa and the delights of a solitary cigar. 

“ Last time I was here,” says Mr. McGrath, sud- 
denly, and apropos of nothing, “ there was a donkey. 
A most energetic ass. I used to ride him bare- 
backed, with his disgustingly short mane as reins.” 

“ In what circus were you then ?” asks Captain 
Adare, anxiously. But McGrath continues his speech 
unmoved. “ I wonder if he is here still ?” 


12 


A LONELY MAID, 


‘‘Ask Sir Lucien/' says May. 

“Not much. My dear girl, do you know me? 
No, I shall find him out for myself. I remember he 
had a little black cross of hair over his shoulders." 

“ Every donkey has that," says Grey, contemptu- 
ously. 

McGrath grows thoughtful. “ Has he ? " he asks 
May, in a low tone, indicating Grey ; but May, who, 
as a rule, aids and abets him in all his villainies, now 
makes a little swift move and turns her back upon 
him. 

“ Well, girls are queer things," says Owen, re- 
flectively, to himself And then, catching her sleeve, 
— sleeves are big nowadays, — he draws her back. 

“ What’s up ?" 

“Nothing! What should there be?" Her eyes 
belie her words. 

“ Come and see that old moke again, then, to- 
morrow after breakfast." 

“ Nonsense ! He must be dead by this time." 

“ Donkeys never die," solemnly. 

“ Don’t be absurd." 

, “ They don’t really. It has been proved." 

“ Eveiything dies." 

“ Except donkeys," sturdily. “ They are superior 
to us, you see. You will come after breakfast." 

“ Certainly not," coldly. And then, as if recog- 
nizing that her incivility to Owen may be pleasing 
to Gilbert, she suddenly changes her air. “ A bike 
is good enough for me," declares she, with a little 
laugh. 

“But so antediluvian, dearest," puts in Mrs. Clar- 


A LONELY MAW. 


13 


ence, who had been the centre of admiration at Bat- 
tersea Park some weeks ago. Taken the cake, 
according to her brother. ‘‘ Everyone can bike now- 
adays. It is disgusting how the middle classes pick 
up things ! Really the good old donkey has its 
charms. One could strike out a new line on him.’* 

‘‘ So you could,” says Owen, encouragingly. 
‘‘ Over his head !” 

Miss Adare laughs ; but Mrs. Clarence, though re- 
fusing to smile at the absurd joke, answers it. 

“ Not as we shall ride him nowl' says she, calmly. 
Visions of rational costumes rise to every one. 

“ Where’s Uncle Lucien ?” asks May, suddenly. 

‘‘ He has gone to bed ; said he did not feel very 
well !” 

“ What a blessing !” says Mrs. Clarence. Whether 
this has allusion to Sir Lucien’s being safely out of 
reach or ill is left doubtful. 

“ He is like a dear innocent little child,” says 
Everard. “ We never love him so dearly as when 
he is asleep.” 

I don’t believe he is ever asleep,” says Mr. 
McGrath, gloomily. ” And if by chance he ever 
should be, I know he’d walk.” 

‘‘You mistake,” says Hilary, talking two notes 
deeper. ‘‘ He is reserving that as a bon bouche for 
us when he is dead !” 

“ Pouf!” says Mrs. Clarence; ‘‘do you think he is 
going to give us the satisfaction of leaving the world 
before us? You little know him 1” 

“ Anyhow, it seems we are safe for an hour or so,” 
says Everard, dropping into the chair nearest to her. 


14 


A LONELY MAW, 


** Let US make the most of it. By the way, what is 
the matter with him, Hilary 

“ I don’t know really. But I made out he went 
for a long walk, and came back tired; he looked 
wretched, I thought.” 

“Yet he ought to be happy,” says his sister. 
“ He has every one of his relations round him !” 

At this they all roar, to May’s intense disgust. 

“The flowers of speech are still with us,” says 
Everard, sweetly. 

“And such a little daisy of a flower,” says Owen. 
“ May, I always knew you were an angel. I’m your 
relation, remember. I am round you^ so you must 
be happy !” 

“ I do hate stupid people,” says May, pettishly, 
whereon the cloud that has been adorning Gilbert 
Grey’s forehead for the past twenty minutes lifts 
considerably. 

“ For the matter of that,” says Mrs. Clarence, 
“ Sir Lucien has not got all his relations round him. 
There is yet another niece of his living in this part 
of the country. Have you all forgotten her ? But 
it is not to be wondered at, as of her he never 
speaks.” 


CHAPTER II. 


“ What hap dismays the dead ? Their couch is low ; 

And over it the summer grasses creep, 

Or the winter snows enshroud it, white and deep, 

Or long prevailing winds of autumn blow.” 

There is a pause. Everyone looks as if in search 
of something once known, but forgotten for years 
and years. Hilary alone smiles. 

“ Oh ! yes, he does sometimes — with adjectives !*’ 
says Captain Adare. The little terrier has now gone 
to sleep upon his knees. 

I declare I had forgotten all about her,^’ cries 
May, growing suddenly excited. “ But now I re- 
member she is our cousin, — our first cousin, isn’t she, 
Hilary ? Her mother was our aunt, — Uncle Lucien’s 
sister? Yet imagine,” spreading her pretty hands 
abroad for a mere charming second. We have 
none of us ever yet seen her. Have you, Hilary ? 
No? Then where was she when last we were all 
here ?” 

Where yoti ought to have been, — in the school- 
room,” returns her brother, laughing. 

‘‘ You are wrong,” says Mrs. Clarence. She was 
in Paris with that precious mother of hers.” 

Is she there still ?” asks Everard. 


15 


i6 


A LONELY MAID, 


** Oh, no ! she is here now, as I tell you. Has 
been here, indeed, for some time; ever since her 
mother’s death, which took place about six years 
ago. She is living in an old house seven miles from 
this, with some relations of her father called Deane. 

‘‘ Fancy that,” says Mary (though she has never 
read a word of Ibsen). “ Isn’t it ridiculous that one 
can’t see her? One’s own cousin, and only seven 
miles away !” 

‘‘ In a great old rambling house,” goes on Hilary, 
taking up Dolly Clarence’s revelations. He has not 
as yet, however, seen the house of the unknown 
cousin. “ A regular barrack of a place, I’m told ; 
huge, empty, and with a dilapidated mill at the end 
of the lawn or somewhere.” 

‘‘ Her father used to work it,” says Gilbert Grey ; 
at least so I’m told.” 

“ Her grandfather !” corrects Mrs. Clarence. 
‘‘ Thank heaven, they are neither of them alive now. 
I suppose in a way they would be relations — of a 
sort — too.” 

A miller,” puts in May, a little disdainfully. 

‘‘ Well, yes and no,” says her brother. ‘‘ If you 
allude to her father, hardly that, in the usual accep- 
tation of the term, as I believe, though he still made 
pretence of working the mill, he let it go to irretriev- 
able ruin. He was a decent enough sort of fellow, 
I have heard, — connected not so badly either on his 
mother’s side, but not quite , — you know !” with a 
comprehensive nod all round. “ A bookworm, too, 
which is fatal if one is not — exactly — you see !” 

‘‘ Pity Sir Lucien won’t recognize her,” says 


A LONELY MAID. 


17 

Gilbert Grey, who has a good heart if a very jealous 
one. 

‘‘ Pity he should recognize her now,” puts in Cap- 
tain Adare, with a shrug. “ It would be a betise of 
the first water. If he had recognized her long ago, 
something might have been made of her ; but now — 
she must be a child of the soil, indeed.” 

‘‘A little touch of injustice somewhere,” suggests 
Everard, with a pensive expression. It brings a 
smile to the lips of Mrs. Clarence. She knows him. 
When had he ever done justice to anyone? 

‘‘ Well, I agree with Hilary,” says May, in her 
little rushy way. ‘‘ An impossible, vulgar, countrified 
girl by this time ! How is she to be accepted ? 
Oh !” — impatiently — how coidd Uncle Lucien's 
sister have married so dreadfully?” 

“ Pve just been telling you it wasn't so bad as all 
that,” says her brother. “ He was a miller certainly, 
so was his father and grandfather and great-grand- 
father, I believe, before him ; and really nowadays if 
one can show up three generations one ought to get 
the Victoria Cross. What the girl is like is the 
question. Run wild, I shouldn't wonder. The old 
mill is standing still, I hear.” 

Very still,” says Everard, with a laugh. It was 
in the last stage of decay when we were here , — how 
many years ago ?” turning to Mrs. Clarence, who 
gives him a glance in return that makes him laugh 
inwardly. ‘‘ Well, when we were yesterday / ” 

‘‘ But what has all this got to do with our mysteri- 
ous cousin ?” asks Mr. McGrath, who has been 
weaving all the silken things in the room into a sort 
b 2 * 


i8 


A LONELY MAID, 


of lasso, with which to embarrass May presently, 
and drag her into his net, to the sure discomfiture 
of Gilbert Grey. Let us come back to her ; I hate 
ruins. Some tom-fools admire them — to me they 
suggest nothing but old women.’* 

“ You haven’t been listening,” says Mrs. Clarence, 
severely. Of course Sir Lucien was frantic when 
his sister made so low a match, and now he visits 
on the girl that ancient feud.” 

Just like him,” declares Grey, indignantly. ‘‘ Fancy 
making the life of a young girl wretched just because 
her people had not done according to his tenets !” 

‘‘There was more,” says Mrs. Clarence. “ Haven’t 
you heard, Gilbert, about the disappearance of those 
jewels ?” She leans forward ; jewels appeal to her. 
“ Surely you must have heard !” 

“ I have not, indeed. Jewels ! Whose?” 

“ What ? Jewels ? I never heard of them either,” 
cries May, growing suddenly most deeply interested. 
“ Did you ever hear about them, Hilary ?” 

“ Years ago. But I confess I had forgotten all 
about them until lately, when there seemed to be a 
chance of the revival of the sensation that marked 
their disappearance.” 

“ But I never heard of their appearance,” protests 
May. 

“You must have been asleep, my good child,” 
says Dolly. 

“ Not a bit more than Gilbert,” a little indignantly. 
She resents this speech. “ You never heard of them 
either, Gilbert, did you ?” 

“ Never !” says Grey, emphatically. Blessed igno- 


A LONELY MAID, 


19 

ranee that seems to bring them even a degree nearer 
to each other ! 

“ Well, tell us about them/’ May is somewhat 
mollified, 

“ Oh ! It’s a long story.” Mrs. Clarence looks 
bored. 

ril tell you,” says Everard, who seems amused. 

Your dear Uncle Lucien’s sister — an only sister — 
was by a clause in her father’s will entitled on her 
marriage to take possession of the family jewels. I 
have heard it said that they were unique, — that their 
price was fabulous ; but, at all events, there is no 
doubt about it that they were and are (though I 
expect distributed by this time) some of the best 
stones in Europe. Of course, the old man always 
thought that with her beauty and position she would 
marry brilliantly, and so left her the jew^els. She, 
however, elected to marry the miller, O’Connell.” 

“ She ought to have been ashamed of herself,” 
yawns Mrs. Clarence. 

“ But what an extraordinary arrangement, — about 
the will, I mean !” says Grey. 

“ The absurdest on record. There was, however, 
a proviso. She was to have the jewels for her life, or 
until she had a son. There was no mention of a 
daughter, or else our unknown cousin would be the 
richest heiress in England to-day. Failing the son, 
they were to revert to the family again, — to Sir 
Lucien, in fact. He did all he could to make his 
father change this will ; but even after the disastrous 
marriage the old man would not. She was to have 
the jewels for her life, or for her son.” 


20 


A LONELY MAID. 


** Yes, that was it,'* says Mrs. Clarence. ** I re- 
member it all now quite clearly. And no son was 
born. Only a girl. Therefore the diamonds — very 
valuable, — half a king's ransom, as they say — should 
have come to Sir Lucien. But how was it, Eustace ?’' 
to Everard. “ On her death" — frowning prettily 
(she never forgets appearances) and shaking a small 
forefinger up and down, as if to help her memory 
— ‘‘ the jewels were not to be had ; they were lost ; 
gone, and never a single sign of them since; isn't 
that it ?" 

‘‘A very graphic description. On Mrs. O’Con- 
nell's death, demand was made for the jewels, but 
from that day to this no tidings of them have ever 
been heard." 

“ Her husband ?" 

‘‘ O’Connell, they all said^ made away with them. 

But " 

You think ?" 

‘‘From all I have heard of her," puts in Mrs. 
Clarence, indolently, " I should say Lilian Adare — 
Mrs. O'Connell — had more to do with the selling of 
or disposing of them than anyone else. Aunt Maria, 
who knew her very intimately, says she was a vain, 
intolerably selfish creature, with a capacity for spend- 
ing money that " 

" Even you could not rival," says Everard, in a 
little, low, teasing whisper that reaches her ear alone. 

" Still, a woman, however extravagantly inclined, 
could hardly sell a quantity of valuable stones with- 
out a chance of their being traced," says Gilbert 
Grey. 


A LONELY MAW, 


21 


That’s what I always think,” says Adare. And 
O’Connell, out of sheer malignity (you know he 
was never acknowledged by any of your family), 

could not he perhaps ?” He pauses ; it is bad 

to speak ill of the dead. 

“ You think he hid them ?” Mrs. Clarence stifles 
another yawn behind her fan. ” Perhaps that is 
the best solution of the mystery. At all events, it 
gives me hope of a final sensation ! The discovery ! ! 
In large type.” 

‘‘ What madness to make a will like that !” says 
Everard. ‘‘ To give stones of almost untold value 
into the hands of a girl who was unable to manage 
even her own life. I don’t exactly hanker after Sir 
Lucien, but I’m sorry he failed in getting his father 
to change his will. But it seems the old man would 
not hear of it. He stood firm. The fact is, he was 
not in love with Sir Lucien, and he adored his 
daughter, — perhaps because she was his only one.” 

‘‘ Oh, no ! Because she was domineering, — hard, 
unloving, but very beautiful,” says Mrs. Clarence, 
with a cynical shrug of her shoulders. 

‘‘ There might have been another reason for the 
old man’s obstinacy,” says Gilbert Grey. Everard 
has hinted at it. We all know he hated his eldest 
son. Sir Lucien. Have you forgotten it?” 

“ Hardly forgotten,” Mr. McGrath, who has been 
so taken up with knotting his noose as to be unable 
to bear the noble part he usually does in every con- 
versation, whether it concerns him or otherwise, now 
breaks in, solemnly. “ We merely felt it was un- 
necessary to mention it. Our dear relative, Sir 


22 


A LONELY MAID, 


Lucien, has made known to us by this time his many- 
engaging qualities. You say he went for a long 
walk to-day with Hilary in the direction of the old 
mill?” 

‘"Yes,” May nods her head, "‘that is where his 
sister Mrs. O’Connell used to live.” 

“ Where our aunt used to live,” corrects her 
brother, lifting his brows and smiling a little. 

“ Oh !” May frowns slightly, “ I never thought of 
her as that.” 

“Yet you thought of her daughter as your 
cousin.” 

“ That’s so different.” 

“Is it? Yet it was her mother who married the 
millman ” 

“Your uncle,” puts in Everard, carefully. 

“ It’s absurd,” says May, throwing up her head 
with a touch of hauteur ; “ because one’s aunt happens 
to marry a — a — anybody, why should " anyone’ be 
called my uncle ?” 

“ So unfair,” murmurs Mrs. Clarence. “So unjust. 
These stupid governments that come and go are 
always bringing in the silliest laws for the silliest 
things in the world, when sensible ones are for ever 
staring them in the face. Now a bill that would 
make an aunt not an aunt when she had married 
beneath her would do more good than all this edu- 
cation rubbish you could put your mind to.” 

“ I entirely agree with you,” says Everard, who is 
a cousin of Sir Lucien’s only, and who has come 
down here into this little Irish corner of the world 
for no earthly reason he can assign to himself, unless 


A LONELY MAID. 


23 


he believes in the shooting, and the idea that it may- 
be good for him to vegetate a bit. The fact that 
Mrs. Clarence was also coming had influenced him 
slightly, — not much. He has known her for so many 
years. ‘‘ By the way, Sir Lucien's sister, Lilian 
Adare, ran away with her husband, didn’t she ?’' 

‘‘Oh, no! She only married him, to the disgust 
of all her family. Her father — your grandfather. 
May — lived here then, and as she was the light of 
his eyes, he forgave her, though her brother. Sir 
Lucien, never did. But her father’s forgiveness 
(he must have been in his dotage) did her little 
good, as he died three days after her wedding. 
Your poor father, you know, died two years before 
that.” 

“Yes, I know,” says May, slowly. She hardly 
remembers either her father or her mother. Her 
father had been Sir Lucien’s younger brother. 

“ It was quite a tragedy,” murmurs Mrs. Clarence, 
in a tone that would have suited quite as admirably 
if she had said, “ It was quite a comedy.” 

“ How she must have felt that I” says May, in a 
low tone. “ Her father dying so soon after her ter- 
rible defiance of all his wishes, his desires. . . .” 

“ Oh, she was a fool 1” says Mrs. Clarence. “ And 
fools feel nothing.” 

Everard regards her curiously. 

“You don’t study things,” says he. “The one 
who does feel is the fool 1” 

At this Mr. McGrath grows thoughtful. 

“ Sir Lucien must be a genius,” he remarks. 

“You are wrong there. He feels something.” 


24 


A LONELY MAID, 


says Gilbert Grey, who always contradicts Owen if 
possible, and, as a rule, to his subsequent grief. He 
feels the loss of those stones.’' 

“ I think he has come here this time because of 
them,” says Everard. ‘‘ You know that fellow Deane 
is in the country. He was a nephew of O’Connell’s, 
and after O’Connell’s death Sir Lucien took it 
into his head that Deane knew something of the 
jewels.” 

He thought ” 

“ He never thinks. He feels certain that they are 
still intact, hidden somewhere, and that probably 
Deane as the sole relative of O’Connell may know 
something of them.” 

‘‘ Why not the girl rather r” 

‘‘ Well, he is divided between suspicion of her and 
Deane. That’s why he hates her.” 

‘‘ What fun it would be to make him receive her 
and acknowledge her whilst we are here!” says Mrs. 
Clarence, her eyes brightening. 

‘‘ Oh, no !” May grows a little uncertain. “ I dare 
say, I am sure she is dreadful. Quite a common 
girl, — an impossible person.” 

That’s where the fun would come in,’' declares 
Mrs. Clarence, languidly. “ To catch a wild creature 
like that and try to tame her, — and with Sir Lucien 
looking on !” She laughs in her low, soft, somewhat 
wicked little way. 

‘‘ Oh, if it came to that ! To catch anything 
and try to do it good,” says May. ‘‘ There would 
be some excitement about that, I should quite 
like it.” 


A LONELY MAID. 


25 


‘‘ I knew it ! I guessed it ! We both think alike V* 
cries Mr. McGrath, enthusiastically. And in a second 
she finds herself caught by soft silken thongs and 
bound to her seat. Owen has thrown the lasso. 

‘‘ Owen ! How detestable you can be from May, 
angrily, and ‘‘ Really, McGrath, this is going a little 
too far,'’ from the irate Grey, is enough to repay 
Mr. McGrath for all the knottings together of those 
silken chair-backs (and twisted ropes of silk from 
May's work-basket and sundry rolls of ribbon caught 
round flower-pots), and to make him at peace with 
himself and everyone else for the rest of the even- 
ing. He has scored one off Grey. 


CHAPTER III. 


“ When youth and beauty meet together 
There’s work for breath.” 

On this old mill, one® fine in its strength and its 
proportions, now dilapidated and grown grey and 
wrecked through stress of age and neglect, the 
August sun is smiling (as, thank God ! it always 
does smile on the good and bad alike), lighting up 
its moss-grown corners, its falling chimneys, and its 
crumbling walls, that would have crumbled even 
faster but for the faithful ivy, friend of many years, 
that still clings to it. 

Over there, a little farther up the hill, and half 
hidden by a belt of trees that had been planted be- 
tween it and the mill (perhaps with a view to hiding 
the latter), the house may be seen, — O’Connell’s 
House,” as it is called by the peasants round. A 
very ordinary old house, square and bare and ex- 
posed to all the winds of heaven, with sad touches 
on it here and there, made by time and want of care, 
and redeemed only entirely from the basest common- 
place by a splendid old mullioned window on the 
north side and the massive oak wood of the door- 
way. A forbidding-looking house, with the remains 
of an old moat running round it, that once, perhaps, 
26 


A LONELY MAID. 


27 


was full of water, but now is dry and overgrown with 
rank grass and poisonous weeds. No doubt, in the 
past generation the river that flooded it had been 
turned into another channel to feed the old mill 
below, that now in its turn is dry and silent too. 

The sun to-day is shining too hotly for the com- 
fort of one person, at all events. Captain Adare, who 
has been out fishing since early dawn, has now, as it 
draws towards evening, reached the small river, the 
Arrigaun, that, beginning quite a long way up be- 
tween the shoulders of the two big hills, runs down 
here straight into the arms of the old mill. 

Sport has been bad, — so bad that even a fisherman 
(most patient of all creatures on this earth of ours) 
must be given leave to swear at it. Hilary has not 
sworn as yet, but at this point, finding the river 
grown so shallow and so choked with weeds that 
the throwing of a fly can but be for the merriment 
of the fishes, comes to a standstill, and takes com- 
mune with himself as to which is the shortest way 
home. This way? — he looks to the road behind 
him, — but it gives him no clue. He had come, fol- 
lowing the river whithersoever it chose to lead him, 
not thinking of roads, or a way to return, and it had 
led him so pretty a dance, that now the road stretch- 
ing out like a white ribbon to — anywhere (so long it 
is) — conveys to him no meaning as to how to get 
back to Carrig in time for dinner. 

Where the deuce has he got to? He looks to 
right and left, but no one comes in sight, and there 
is not a rising cloud of smoke upon the air to tell 


28 


A LONELY MAID, 


of a peasant's cottage. Once again he turns his 
glance on the old mill, that had appeared so hope- 
less a derelict to him at his first glance that he had 
given it up as a means of communication with his 
fellow-creatures. Who could live there in that old 
wind-ridden barrack of a place, windowless, almost 
roofless, a mere splendid ruin uprearing its damaged 
head to the skies — that never care? 

His eyes sweep it carelessly, as if knowing nothing 
is to be got from it, and then all at once grow con- 
centrated on one spot, — one opening where a window 
in the past no doubt had been. Surely there, in the 
frameway of it, someone can be seen. He can hardly 
be sure, as the sun, so brilliant half an hour ago, has 
now capriciously retired, giving way to a soft, pale 
grey mist that, rising, rapidly envelops most things 
in its delicate folds. 

Piercing the mist for a moment, the sun shines 
out again, making the figure more prominent, — tall, 
slender, girlish. 

“ The Maid of the Mist," he tells himself with a 
smile. “ Well, anyway, I suppose she can send me 
on my way with or without her blessing." 

He wades through the river, now so shallow as to 
be hardly dignified by that name any longer, and 
taking a fence, pulls up presently right under the old 
mill. He has got beyond the range of the window 
where the figure stood, and the old gaunt frame-work 
of the place becomes a blank to him. 

“Still, she was there," he says to himself, and 
going farther on, and rounding a corner or two, finds 
himself in front of a huge opening in the wall ; it was 


A LONELY MAID, 


29 


once a doorway, no doubt, but is now only a yawn- 
ing orifi,ce; and of these doorways he can see that 
there are several farther on, but he stays at the first 
he comes to, and entering it, runs up a bare, tottering 
staircase that is clinging, as it were, to the wall on 
his right 

Before going up this rotten treadway he had 
noticed distinctly, yet with indifference at the time, 
the mark of an arrow, — a small black arrow painted 
on the side of the wall by which he had come in, — 
an arrow pointing downwards. 

Now he has come to the top of the stairway, and, 
bowing his head beneath an arch that has been 
built very low, finds himself upon a floor that once 
had had many a bushel of grain upon it, but is now 
broken and rotten, a mere trap for unwary feet, and 
empty — save for 

^ ^ 9ie ’K 3k 

She stands up as he comes in. 

Once again the heavens, as though in recogni- 
tion of her beauty, open wide, and the sun, shining 
through their clefts, falls full upon her. She had 
turned at his approach and is now looking at him ; 
it is a calm, dignified look, that has no fear in it and 
no ill-bred confusion. The floor between them might 
indeed be regarded as a protection, — had she even 
dreamed of wanting so absurd a thing, — being so 
broken and divided here and there that the terri- 
ble depths below can be distinctly seen. But in the 
embrasures of the window of this torn-down old 
mill the flooring still holds firm ; and erect, beauti- 
ful, expectant, she stands, her eyes on his, her head 
3 ^ 


30 


A LONELY MAID. 


a little forward bent, a book, half-closed, lying be- 
tween the fingers of the hand that has now, in her 
surprise, been lowered to her side. 

‘‘ I beg your pardon,” says Adare, greatly taken 
aback at this sudden coming on a gently born girl, 
where he had expected to find only a young woman 
of the farming class, who would have set him on his 
right road to Carrig Castle ; ‘‘ but the fact is, IVe 
lost my way, and I couldn’t see a living soul in 
sight to make enquiries of until” — with an apologetic 
smile and a slight bow — “ I caught sight of you in 
the window.” 

‘^Yes?” She too smiles faintly, and as her lips 
part he acknowledges yet more deeply the charm, 
the loveliness, of her perfect face. “ You,” with a 
glance at his fishing boots, saw me from the 
river ?” 

From down there,” pointing through the bare 
open space where a window once had been to a turn 
in the stream below. ‘‘ Of course” — hesitating — “ I 
cannot be sure it was you I saw ” 

“ Oh, yes.” She nods her head, gravely. ‘‘ I am 
the only one who ever enters this old ruin.” 

‘‘ I feel I’ve been awfully presumptuous,” says 
Adare, “ coming here disturbing you. But will you 
be so good as to tell me” — he pauses and laughs 
involuntarily ; his laugh is charming — where I 
am?” 

“You are in the townland of Beanreagh, and this 
is the old mill. O’Connell’s mill they call it.” 

Adare starts slightly. “ Why, that is where 

“ O’Connell’s mill ?” repeats he, slowly. 


A LONELY MAID. 


31 


‘‘You have heard of it, then? It’' — simply — “be- 
longed to my father. Our house is up there.” Her 
eyes go over his shoulder, and one slender hand 
points to where, as he turns round, he can see, 
through a broken window, a big, gaunt, white house, 
dull and unattractive. 

“Your house? You are then,” regarding her 
closely, — “ Your name is — O’Connell?” 

“ I am Amber O’Connell,” returns she, gently, yet 
with growing amazement. 

“ And I” — quickly — “ am Hilary Adare.” 

“Adare?” She lifts her brows. The name, so 
far as he is concerned, evidently conveys nothing to 
her. 

“Surely” — a little hotly — “you have heard of 
us !” 

“ I am sorry. But,” colouring slightly, as if 
ashamed of an ignorance that seems to hurt him, 
“ I really have not. Of course I know the name. 
There is even some one — an old man — Sir Lucien 
Adare — who, I believe, used to live in this part of the 
world at one time, but he has been in England for 
years, and ” 

“ He is not in England now; he is here.” 

“ Here !” All at once her face changes. Her lip 
curls. Instinctively she draws herself up, and a very 
passion of anger and defiance blazes in her dark blue 
eyes. “ At Carrig !” She draws her breath sharply. 
** And you?'' demands she, imperiously. 

“ I am Sir Lucien’s nephew, and — I think — your 
cousin !” 

There is a long pause, whilst two frowning blue 


32 


A LONELY MAID. 


eyes gaze into two dark brown eyes that are full of 
entreaty. Then — 

“ Come, I can’t help being his nephew, can I ?” 
says Adare. With this he frankly holds out his 
hand to her. But she puts hers behind her back. 

‘‘ His nephew !” 

‘‘ But }^our cousin !” 

She sighs quickly, and then — as if the generous 
nature of her rebels against the thought of anger 
against a man who, however closely connected with 
the enemy, still has done her no wrong of his own 
accord — draws one small brown hand from behind 
her and lays it daintily in his broad palm ; with a 
certain reservation and a touch of hauteur, however, 
that sits most charmingly upon her. 

He takes it, holding it gently, whilst he looks at 
her; then lets it go again. If for a moment he had 
imagined — which, after all, perhaps he didn’t — that 
he was the cousin best fitted by circumstances to 
confer distinction on the other, in this scene of recog- 
nition, he must now for ever be aware of his mistake. 
This slight, unknown creature has given him to un- 
derstand, by a glance, a gesture, a turn of her haughty 
little head, that she permits him to be on an equality 
with her because he is her cousin, not because she is 
his ! 

Yes, we are cousins,” she admits, in a very low 
voice, so that he feels not only thrust back, but al- 
most discarded. 

Don’t say you are sorry about it.” 

“ Not about that ! No, I am only sorry that we 
have ever met !” 


A LONELY MAID, 


33 


He glances at her. 

“ You don’t look discourteous/’ he ventures, in a 
reproachful way. 

‘‘ Yet to you I am, I must be,” cries she, vehe- 
mently. Do you think I have not felt — have not 
suffered . . . from your indifference to me ?” 

Mine ! My indifference ! . . .” 

“ Oh ! it is all the same.” She turns away from 
him, looking out through the window to the river 
beyond, and yet in such a way that he knows she 
cannot see the river, because her eyes are filled so 
full with tears that she fears the overflowing of them. 
“ You are on his side, I am on this.” 

I am not on Sir Lucien’s side, if you mean that.” 

‘'You must be. It is useless to talk about it. 
There !” She glances kindly at him, kindly but dis- 
tantly. ” Let us make an end of it. We have met 
to-day — T o-morro w ’ ’ 

“ We shall” — eagerly — " meet again.” 

" Oh, no. We shall probably forget that we have 
ever met.” 

" I shall not'" with decision. “ Where are you 
going now?” She has made a step towards the 
stone staircase outside. 

Home.” Her manner is cold almost to disa- 
greeability. Perhaps she feels the little touch of 
discourtesy, because she turns to him, with her foot 
on the topmost stair, and says, — 

"You want to know the shortest way to Carrig, 
do you not ? Come with me and I shall point it out 
to you.” 


34 


A LONELY MAID. 


He follows her. She goes very silently ; and 
silence thus being imposed upon him, he has time 
to glance round him ; but nothing on his way down 
these dangerous old stairs attracts his attention until, 
on coming once again to the doorway, his eyes light 
on the small arrow, painted black upon the wall, that 
had first caught his eye on coming in. A little 
farther on and this anon can be seen, and on the left 
of the doorway he sees one again ; both these arrows 
point downwards. 


CHAPTER IV. 


** O rose so subtly sweet ! 

What dost thou in the snow 
The time of frost and sleet, 
When roses should not blow, 
Playing at summer so ?’* 


What a wonderful old place!'’ says he, stopping 
and peering down through a great hole in the floor- 
ing near the doorway. A trap-door once had cov- 
ered it, no doubt, because some of the broken fasten- 
ings can still be seen, whilst a ladder caught on by 
iron crooks (that looked comparatively new, consid- 
ering the other surroundings) hangs over the gaping 
space. “ Does it ever come to an end ?” 

“ I don't know ; I suppose so, down therey She 
has come up quite close to him and is now bending, 
as he is, over the yawning gulf in the rotten boards, 
and gazing into seemingly unfathomable depths 
below. Do you know," she goes on, ‘‘ this old 
mill has the strangest fascination for me. I cannot 
keep away from it. I think" — smiling — “ it will make 
me or mar me some day. Black as it looks down 
there, another floor is beneath it, and beyond that 
something else lies, — I don't know what." 

‘‘ A cellar, probably." 


35 


36 


A LONELY MAID. 


‘‘ I daresay. As I tell you, I don't know. I have 
not had the courage to go down. There is. a sound 
of water when you get to the flooring below, and 
that means rats ! I hate rats. I’m a coward, I con- 
fess it.” 

They are standing together, peering into the black 
void beneath, but now she turns and gives him a 
little glance. It is the archest^ merriest little glance, 
— the most innocent one, — and she accompanies it 
with a laugh, soft and light-hearted. 

He turns his gaze from that queer gulf beneath to 
meet this laugh, and, meeting it, is conscious of a 
supreme surprise. To look, to laugh like that, when 
only a moment ago she seemed so cold, so self- 
attained, so unobtainable. The extraordinary change 
in her gives him the sudden feeling that until now 
he has not really met her. What infinite variety lies 
in her face, her whole air ! He loses himself for a 
moment in the question as to whether she is most 
charming, grave, as she was when first he met her, 
or gay, as she is now. At all events, beyond doubt, 
she is the prettiest girl he has 

His thoughts stop abruptly, and something like 
confusion, that fast changes to disgust, comes into 
his eyes. Good heavens ! How could he ever 
have thought — imagined — that that other girl 
was . . . 

‘‘ I believe you are afraid of rats, too,” says a mis- 
chievous voice that rouses him from his displeasing 
memories. 

“Why?” asks he, starting. 

“ Your face” — laughing — “ has changed so much.” 


A LONELY MAID, 37 

‘‘ Well/’ — he has recovered himself now and laughs 
with her, — ‘‘ I don’t specially love them.” 

“ That settles it,” with an indescribable gesture, 
so quick, so sweet it is, so taunting. “ I sha’n’t show 
you that part of my estate to-day.” 

‘‘ I don’t believe you could show it,” with fine 
contempt. “ I don’t believe you know your way 
to it. You have confessed to me that you were 
never there.” 

For all that,” glancing at him from under her 
long lashes, “ if you had been brave enough, I might 
have even now found cause to explore my kingdom 
underground. But as it is ” 

She shrugs her shoulders. The gesture is a little 
French, but not aggressively so, and he remembers 
all at once that she had lived with her mother in 
Paris when a child. Such little tricks cling. And 
yet it is hardly foreign, that pretty shrug. It seems 
to belong to her alone. 

She is smiling at him, defying him. 

“ If it comes to that,” says he, bracing himself as 
if for a struggle, “ I shall do it. I feel particularly 
brave just now. Come, before my courage evapo- 
rates.” 

He has one foot on the ladder. 

No, no.” She makes a little protesting gesture, 
and, turning, brings him after her out into the misty 
sweetness of the evening. 

‘‘ You spoke of home a while ago,” says he, pres- 
ently. ‘‘It is that house up there, is it not? But 
a house does not mean a home, and you have told 
me nothing of yourself. You have friends?” 

4 


33 


A LONELY MAID, 


“ I have'* — slowly — “ relations." And then with a 
cold little smile, “ You had not even learned so much 
about me ?" 

I am so seldom here," begins Adare, flushing 
hotly. Then, losing all his self-control, “ I know 

you have been most, most damn I mean, most 

disgracefully treated by the lot of us. But for the 
most part we never knew." 

And did not care to inquire." Her tone is no 
longer aggressive. It is low, and a little sigh breaks 
from her lips. Well, you shall know all there is to 
know. I live here with a cousin of my father’s, 
Esther Deane. She has some little money, and I 
have a little more, and so she says it is well for us 
both to keep house together." 

‘‘ Yours being the house?" 

“Oh, yes ! If" — turning her head away from him 
— “ such a torn-down old ruin can be called one." 

She seems crushed for the moment, but almost in 
the moment recovers herself. Adare, who has not 
known the Irish character sufficiently well to make 
allowances for these sudden inexplicable changes of 
mood, is a little taken aback, when she says, calmly, — 

“ Talking of that, I must seem very inhospitable. 
That is my house up there, and yet — won’t you 
come in and have a cup of tea ? Esther, I am sure, 
will be " 

“ Not to-day, thank you. I am afraid as it is I 
shall be a little late for dinner. But another day, if 
you will allow me " 

He breaks off, expecting an answer. But she is 
silent. Her whole air up to this has been so gracious 


A LONELY MAID. 


39 


and so sweet that he turns sharply to look at her. 
Her eyes are steadily downcast, a faint tinge of 
colour that seems to him born of confusion warms 
her cheek. To cover it he goes on quickly, — 

'‘You have another relation here, have you 
not ?*' 

She glances at him quickly, a little disdainfully, 
perhaps. And Adare grows less sure that that touch 
of colour a moment since was born of confusion. 

"You know something about me after all, then," 
says she. " Yes, Esther’s brother, Brian Deane, is 
staying here, for the present only.” — Had that quick 
flush meant that he was out now, but might be in 
another day ? — " He came from Australia about a 
month ago, where he has a. sheep farm. Why he 
came, or for what, I don’t know, but Esther says on 
business. I know she wrote to him to come.” 

" On business ?” 

" So she says. I sometimes think she wants to 
go back with him. And they both want me to go 
too. However,” with sudden recollection, " these 
details cannot possibly interest you. And — you 
want to know your road home, do you not ?” 

"I suppose so. I” — with a short laugh — "had 
almost forgotten about it.” 

" At that rate” — coldly — " it is well I reminded 
you. You see that hill over there ?” 

" To the right ?” 

"Yes. You go up that, and then in the valley 
below it you will see a straight white road. Follow 
it and it will take you straight to Carrig.” She bows 
her head slightly. " Good-bye !” 


40 


A LONELY MAID, 


“ For the present/’ — hastily. ‘‘ And— you aren’t 
going without shaking hands with me ?” 

She holds out a small and very unwilling hand, 
which she almost immediately reclaims. 

“ We are not living so very far apart,” says he, 
hopefully ; ‘‘ we shall certainly meet again.” 

‘‘ I don’t think so. I” — distinctly and with a clear 
gaze into his eyes — “ hope not.” 

‘‘ Hope it ?” 

‘‘With” — warmly — “all my heart. Don’t think 
me too rude ; but, believe me, it will be better that 
our acquaintance — such as it is — shall be ended 
now. There could never be friendship between our 
houses.” 

“ There might be,” begins he, impulsively (“ if Sir 
Lucien once saw you,” he was going to say, but 
luckily stops himself in time), “ if you and Sir Lucien 
were to meet.” 

The girl makes a gesture full of extreme hauteur. 

“ I have no desire to meet Sir Lucien,” says she, 
in a low voice full of concentrated bitterness. 

“ For all that- ” 

“ Oh, no!"' interrupting him vehemently. “Don’t 
go on. Every word is an insult. Oh !” as if 
smitten with a smart twinge of pain, “ I don’t know 
how I have let myself be so friendly even with 

So friendly! A very poor friendliness, indeed, 
jcoqsidering we are cousins.” 

“ A most mistaken friendliness” — hotly — “ when I 
consider that your uncle will not so much as ac- 
knowledge my existence !” 

“He’s an old fool!” says Adare, lightly. “Wait 


A LONELY MAID, 


41 


till you meet May — that’s my sister, you know — 
and she’ll tell you all about him. And, anyway, 
what has he got to do with you and me — or” — 
hastily — “ anyone, for the matter of that ? It’s a mere 
mistake on his part, — he’s always making them, — a 

misconception, — a ” 

She puts up her hand and checks him. 

” You forget I know it all. Sir Lucien never for- 
gave my mother for marrying my father, and he is 
far less likely to forgive me, who am my father’s 
daughter.” 

Oh, what nonsense ! Why, look here ” He 

feels full of eloquence, but again she stops him by a 
slight but imperious gesture. 

” It is not nonsense. He believes my father stole 
and sold those jewels that my mother was given by 

Oh !” — passionately — ” of course, you too know 

the whole of that detestable, hideous slander.” Her 

eyes are aflame. ‘‘ If you had known my father ” 

” I believe the whole story a most despicable 
lie.” His tone is almost as vehement as her own. 
” But ” 

” There are no * buts.’ ” She is now in as hand- 
some a rage as any pretty girl may choose to be in, 
and once again, even in this moment, so distracting 
and perplexing, it occurs to Hilary that at this mo- 
ment he is seeing her for the first time; that all his 
other knowledge of her — immense, as he had fondly 
believed, though gathered within an hour — sinks 
into insignificance. How inexplicable she is ! How 

uncertain ! — how She does not give him time to 

follow out this last reflection. 


4^ 


42 


A LONELY MAID, 


How does that old man dare to say my father 
was a thief? Oh, yes he did! He met Brian the 
other day and accused him of knowing what my 
father had done with them. My father! As if he 
would touch them ! My mother had them — I know 
that. I often saw them. The necklets — the tiaras. 
And they were her own — she often said so — that her 
father gave them to her.*' 

‘‘ Yes. But ’* 

Oh !’* haughtily and tilting her rounded chin, 
‘'more ‘buts.’ There! I know what you would 
say — that they were only hers for a time. But how 
could my father help it if she lost them ? And of 
course she lost them ; because if she had sold them, 
there would be the money, — do you see ? But there 
was never any money ! Therefore they must be lost 
— I know they are lost.” 

“ Amber !” She flashes an angry glance at him. 
Good heavens ! ca7i this be the gentle, dignified, 
calm girl of an hour ago? Is there electricity in 
this Irish soil — in this sad and misty Irish climate — 
that affects the souls of its daughters ? 

“ Well ?” He plucks up some courage even be- 
fore this deadly wrath of hers. “ Why shouldn't I 
call you by your name ? I never heard of anyone’s 
cousin calling one Miss or Mister. Come, now,” 
argumentatively, “ did you ?” 

“ I don’t know.” She pauses. The charming head 
droops a little, all the rancour dies away, and in its 
place, as quickly as a sunbeam smiles through a 
cloud, a little smile widens her beautiful lips. “ How 
coidd I ? I never met a cousin before.” 


A LONELY MAID. 


43 


‘‘ Ah !’* says he ; ‘‘ that accounts for it. And I feel 
that a kind Providence has sent me here to-day to 
teach you how to behave to one. IPs rather a 
solemn thing, — the beginning, — but Til show you. 
Now I take your hand — see ?’' — taking it. ‘‘ And I 
say, Good-bye, Amber, and then you say. Good- 
bye, Hilary. Do you think you can manage it ?” 

“ ril try,” demurely. Good-bye, Hilary.” 

‘‘ Oh, excellent ! excellent !” cries he. A most apt 
pupil. Next time ” 

“ No, there will be no next time,” her happy smile 
fading. 

‘‘ There shall be,” says Hilary. But she turns 
deliberately and runs down the path away from him. 
His eyes follow her until she is out of sight ; then, 
with a quickening of his breath, he turns and makes 
for the hill she had pointed out. 

He has hardly gone a few yards, however, before 
his attention is caught by a man who has jumped 
over a wall into the road, — a man of about forty, tall, 
dark, forbidding looking, handsome of a sort, and 
with a certain strength of character written on his 
low brow. 

He goes by Hilary with a swing that has some- 
thing of aggression in it ; in passing, however, the 
eyes of the two men meet, — rage in one, contempt in 
the other. Both had seen each other before within 
the last three days. Then a turn in the road takes 
Brian Deane beyond the other’s sight, and presently 
to the side of Amber. 

Who was that man you parted from just now ?” 
demands he, as he catches her up. His tone is 


44 


A LONELY MAID, 


harsh and rough ; his breath is coming from between 
his whitened lips in short, suppressed gasps; his 
nostrils are dilated. 

Amber regards him curiously. Her beautiful eyes 
run over the disorder of his face, as if not only sur- 
prised, but a little disgusted at the excitement so 
distinctly printed on it. 

‘‘That was Captain Adare, my cousin,” returns 
she, deliberately. 

“ Your cousin !” His face twitches. “ The nephew 
of the man who has dubbed your father a liar and 
thief!” 

She grows a little white. 

“ The man, however, as you call him, is not Hilary 
Adare.” 

“ And so you would condone the offence.” He 
laughs derisively. “ As though all those vipers 
were not bred in one nest. And pray how did this 
special viper, this cousin, this Hilary Adare, find his 
way here to-day ? By your connivance ? By your 
appointment ?” 

Amber stands still and confronts him. She is 
quite calm. 

“ Talking of ways,” says she, in her clear, soft 
voice; ''this is my way,” turning to the left; “see 
that yours leads somewhere else 1” 


CHAPTER V. 

“ But thy eternal summer shall not fade.” 

After all, Tm rather glad we decided on 
coming,*' says Mrs. Clarence, drawing the carriage 
rug closer round her. Nothing at this dreadful 
woman's party can be duller than the hours we should 
have spent at home. I wonder if she has changed, 
and what direction the change has — has . . 

Here the landau drives into a heavy rut, so that 
whatever Mrs. Clarence would have said about 
Madam O'Flaherty is lost to posterity for ever. The 
shock is sufficiently great to unseat them all, in a 
measure. This to Mr. McGrath seems a most suita- 
ble opportunity of making himself unpleasant all 
round, so with a wild shriek of dismay he seizes 
May in his arms and holds her closely to him, while 
a frenzied expression grows upon his brow. 

‘'Let me g'o, Owen! Dont!'* cries May, angrily 
pushing him from her. 

“ What on earth do you mean, McGrath ?" ex- 
claims Grey, furiously. 

“ I thought she was killed," says Owen, with 
rather ' suspicious excitement. “ Oh, Grey, what 

45 


46 


A LONELY MAID. 


should I — what should you have done had she 
been killed ?” 

I don’t know,” returns Grey, so gruffly, so in- 
differently, as it seems to May, that for the whole of 
the remainder of the day she refuses so much as to 
look at him. 

‘‘ Her roads haven’t changed, anyway,” says Mrs. 
Clarence, with disgust ; her laces have been shaken 
a little out of place. “ I expect neither is she. We 
shall have an awful time here, I know!' 

‘‘ What is she like ?” asks May, who has now had 
time to recover herself. 

‘‘ As I remember her, she was a big, fat, dreadful 
creature, with a brogue you could sit on without fear 
of breaking down, and a nose ” 

‘‘You wouldn’t have her without a nose, would 
you ?” asks her brother. 

“ Oh ! don’t be more absurd than you can help, 
Owen,” Mrs. Clarence frowns at him. “ If you feel 
amiable, I don’t. I think it is a monstrous thing, a 
perfect infliction, to be compelled to come here to-day 
just because this ridiculous old woman happens to be 
a sort of connection of Sir Lucien’s. He has made us 
come — said he’d arrive after us. Such a — well ” 

“ Only a moment ago you said you were glad you 
had decided on coming,” says her brother. “ Really, 
these ruts are dreadful things,” with a sympathetic 
glance at Grey, who gives him a furious one in re- 
turn. “ In my opinion, Dolly, you hopped at the 
chance of going anywhere in this deserted region.” 

This touches the truth so nearly that Mrs. Clarence 
resents it. 


A LONELY MAID, 


47 


** IsrCt he stupid ? Isn't he a fool asks she, 
plaintively appealing largely to the others, who re- 
spond quite as largely, especially Gilbert Grey. 

“ She is so fearfully inquisitive,’' says Everard. 
‘‘ You know I met her at the Brownes the other day. 
She asked me every question under the sun.” 

“ That’s her first fault, — the most glaring. As for 
the others ” 

“ Don’t let’s go too deep,” says Owen. 

‘‘ I really feel,” continues his sister, “ as though I 
were preparing for a competitive examination when 
she addresses me.” 

“ In which you will come out last',' says Owen. 

“ Well, no,” thoughtfully. “ I don’t think that, I 
have laid out a plan for myself. I am going to say 
‘ I don’t know’ to any and every question she may 
ask me to-day.” 

‘‘ Lay you a fiver she gets the better of you,” says 
her brother. ^ 

‘‘ Done !” says Mrs. Clarence, with a little grimace. 

They have driven up to the hall door of “ The 
Larches,” Madam O’Flaherty’s house, by this time, 
and Mrs. Clarence’s last remark is hardly uttered 
before the hostess comes lumbering down from the 
topmost step of the stone flight to receive them. 

So far as May can see (who is filled with curiosity), 
Madam O’Flaherty is distinctly remarkable. She is 
a gigantic woman, with three chins and a topknot. 
On the topknot rests a hat — a sailor hat that a girl 
of fifteen might have worn — perched at an angle of 
forty-five degrees. 

” Here you are, here you are !” cries she, prancing 


48 


A LONELY MAID. 


up to the door of the landau and pushing the foot- 
man triumphantly to one side. So glad to see you 
all. But where is Lucien ? No nonsense about his 
being engaged, now. I know all about that. He 
can't be. Faith,” with a sudden thought, 'twould 
be a fool would be engaged to him!" Here she 
pauses in her rapid utterance to give way to a loud 
and raucous laugh in appreciation of her own wit. 

Mrs. Clarence shudders. 

He — he’s coming,” says she, which is the readi- 
est lie that occurs to her. 

‘‘ He gave us distinctly to understand that nothing 
would keep him away,” supplements her brother, 
nobly. 

“ Well, come along, come along,” cries Madam 
O’Flaherty, with great hospitality. “ Tea’s over there 
in the tent, and soda water and” — with an expressive 
glance towards Gilbert and Owen that the merest 
chance keeps from being a wink — the rest of it is 
in the billiard room. You may remember the billiard 
room, Mr, Everard?” who has just come up with 
Hilary in the dog-cart. “ When my old man was 
above ground, he was the life and soul of that room. 
You’ll show the rest of them the way, eh ?” 

‘‘ I shall be charmed,” says Everard. But in the 
mean time you will let us see your beautiful grounds, 
will you not ?” 

Ah ! you were always the jeuce at compliments !” 
says Madam O’Flaherty, beaming at him cordially 
from under the sailor hat. ‘‘ But won’t you come in 
first? Do now!” affectionately; come in and have 
just a soupsong after your drive.” 


A LONELY MAID, 


SI 

direction the consolation lies. Is it that Sir Lucien 
can't take his place with the good niggers, or . . . 

And how’s your pa ?” asks Madam, recovering 
her spirits in a wonderful way. ‘‘ I haven’t had a 
line from him for six months, though, as you know, 
Kilfern and I are first cousins, and your mother, 
Lady Kilfern, was very fond of me.” (This, strange 
to say, is true, though Lady Kilfern was a very cold, 
haughty woman, and the daughter of one of the old- 
est baronets in England.) ‘‘ How’s his gout?” 

‘‘Very little better.” 

“And the property, how’s that going?” Her 
eyes change and grow sharp. The spirit of curiosity 
is again strong within her. “You ought to keep 
your eye on that, you know. Rents,” with a poor 
attempt at not caring to hear the answer, “ down, I 
suppose ?” 

“ No — up,” says Mr. McGrath, with an eloquent 
wave of his hands towards the skies. “ There’s 
nothing the tenants won’t give my dad this year. 
You’ll hardly believe me, but he’s got to implore 
them to lower them. He has declared to them he 
will be embarrassed with his riches if they persist 
in bringing him such big bags of money as they 
have been doing for the last six weeks !” 

“ I’ll be even with you yet,” says Madam, with a 
grim smile, not in the least disconcerted, although 
baffled about her queries with regard to Kilfern’s 
estate. And at this moment coming to the conclu- 
sion that the “sorting” is getting “no forrarder,” she 
plunges into the thick of a party near her and for 
the moment is lost to sight. 


CHAPTER VI. 


“ There is a garden in her face 
Where roses and white lilies grow.” 

Adare, after a few moments lost in getting aAvay 
from the others, goes straight to where, across the 
shaven tennis courts, the slender figure is bending 
over the bank. 

‘‘ After all, in spite of your unfriendly wish, you 
see we have met again,'' says he, in a low tone. 

She starts as one might who has been suddenly 
roused from a dream filled with the saddest import, 
and some light leaves that she had been holding 
drop with a little jerk into the stream and sail away 
hurriedly, as if in desperate haste to get to the end 
of all things. This momentary sign of agitation is 
all she shows. Her face is calm, if smileless, as she 
turns it to him. 

“ You were the cleverest prophet," she says, giving 
him her hand. 

‘‘ What a strange task you have allotted yourself!" 
he goes on, pleasantly ; ‘‘ and," with a glimmer of 
amusement, ‘‘ on such an important occasion, too ! 
Casting leaves into a river 1 Such an occupation is 
fraught with thought." 

52 


A LONELY MAID. 


53 


Well, yes. I was thinking,” slowly. 

‘‘ But thought at a garden party !” he laughs. ‘‘ Is 
this doing your duty to your neighbour? Is there, 
then, no one here to whom you will deign to speak ?” 

A faint change crosses her face. It is so faint that 
the fact of his seeing it is noticeable. 

‘‘ There are only a very few here,” says she, with a 
clear enunciation born of great courage and perhaps 
greater pride, who would deign to notice me.” 

“ What folly is this ?” asks he, with a frown. ” Who 
is there here who would dare ” 

” Ah, you forget.” The pale pink of her face grows 
paler. All the county knows of the loss of those 
jewels that after my mother should have come to Sir 
Lucien. That knowledge has branded my father’s 
name with infamy, and I,” — spreading her hands a 
little abroad, — ''as I reminded you before, am my 
father’s daughter.” 

" This must be put an end to.” 

" It is very difficult to put an end to slanders,” says 
the girl, gently, if bitterly. " Many here believe in 
that stupid lie.” 

" But this is monstrous,” says Adare. " I thought 
this — this — idea — this old story — was confined to our 
family alone. A mere diseased fancy of Sir Lucien’s 
brain, as of late” (he does not explain how late) ” I 
have learned to regard it. You mean to tell me that 
the people — the idiots — round here hold you respon- 
sible for ” 

" Oh, no, you must not run away with things. I 
really do not know what they hold me responsible 
for ; but I do know that they will not receive me.” 

5 * 


54 


A LONELY MAID, 


“Yet you are here to-day ?“ He questions her 
gravely, anxiously; it would be impossible to find 
fault with him. 

“ Madam is a sort of cousin of mine, you know, as” 
— with a faint frown — “ she is a cousin of yours, too. 
Let us say” — with a supercilious lifting of her charm- 
ing brows — “ she has a more liberal spirit than most. 
The very fact of her being connected with me should 
have militated against her being attentive to me. You 
can see that ” 

“ I can see that you can be unjust,” says he, slowly 
and reproachfully. “ I too am your cousin, and ” 

But she will not hear him. 

“ I don’t know why I accepted her invitation,” with 
a burst of impatience that conceals God knows what 
tortures of pride ; “ why I came here to-day. The 
moment I answered it I regretted so mad a step. 
But Madam insisted on it.” 

‘‘ Then she ” 

“ She is the one kind friend I have on earth,” says 
Amber, her earnest eyes on his. Adare is conscious 
of a shock of surprise. That big, awful, ungainly, in- 
quisitive — vulgarly inquisitive — creature to pose as 
protector to this desolate little thing ! the champion- 
ship of whom will bring her no kudos of any sort. 
Surely human nature is strange to the verge of comedy. 
Anyway, Hilary tells himself he will never forget 
Madam’s kindness to this poor little cousin of 
his. 

“ It’s abominable,” says he. “ I’ll take care it shan’t 
continue. I’ll” — in his vehemence — his rage — his pain 
(though he has not come to know it like that yet) he 


A LONELY MAID. 


55 


goes a little too far — make that old man acknowledge 
you.’' 

She winces slightly ; then, with a flash, — 

‘‘ There is no acknowledgment to be made. I am 
his niece quite as much as you are his nephew. He 
cannot lie about that.” 

I know — I know,” hastily, seeing his mistake. 

But this scandal. That can be put an end to by 
his receiving you.” 

‘‘Oh, don't!'" cries she, fiercely, if in a very low 
tone. Her face has lost all its colour. “ You mean 
to be kind — I know you do ; but every word — it 
hurts so ! Oh !” — faintly, — “ can’t you see that I will 
not be received as a favour by the man who has made 
my father’s name a byword in the county ?” 

“ I can see, indeed. But look here. Amber ; sit 
down here for a moment,” pointing to the grassy 
bank, “ and let us talk it over. None of us, you know, 
can afford to defy fate. We” — reluctantly — “ are 
almost strangers, and I feel I have no right to 
dictate to you a line for this or that ; but in spite of 
what I say, I implore you for your own good — yours 
only'" — (he must have felt some twinges of conscience 
here, because his tone grows absolutely fervid) “ to 
accept any olive branch that Sir Lucien may hold 
out to you. For one thing,” — earnestly, — “ he is an 
old man, and you ” 

“ Well, go on — what am I ?” with a little cynical 
laugh, that in spite of her has some amusement in it. 
“But why go into it?” scornfully. “Is a man like 
Sir Lucien likely to hold out even a dead twig ?” 

“ I shall see that he does.” 


56 


A LONELY MAID. 


Her brow contracts. 

‘‘ I beg you will take no trouble of any sort about 
me.'' She rises. Her face is clouded and her beau- 
tiful lips show a sense of great resentment. “ It 
would be the merest waste of time. I should 
never accept apology, or hospitality of any sort, 
from the man who so cruelly and openly maligned 
my father." 

You are sure he did so openly?" 

‘‘ Quite sure." 

And your mother ?" 

‘‘ She was spared," — contemptuously , — ** though 
the jewels were always in her possession, not in my 
father's. But then," with a curl of her lip, my 
mother chanced to be Sir Lucien’s sister, and of 
course no suspicion of disgrace could be allowed to 
touch herr 

Is that so bad a sentiment, after all ?" says Adare, 
purposely ignoring her real meaning, — the selfish re- 
gard of Sir Lucien for his own respectability. “ She 
was his sister. Of course he would protect her. 
That is the meaning of kinship. Do you think — to 
take another case — that, finding you now to be my 
cousin, I would not protect 

Is there a touch of passion in his tone ? For a 
moment they stand looking into each other’s eyes, 
and then slowly Amber gives way ; her glance falls 
from his face to his shoulder, and then to the 
ground. 

‘‘ I must go back to Esther," she says, quietly, 
taking a step forward that shows him even more 
than her words that she is bent on leaving him. 


A LONELY MAID. 


57 


** Miss Deane is here?” 

“ Yes, she is over there.” 

Adare glances in the direction indicated, and looks 
hard at a small, fragile woman sitting on a garden 
chair. She looks entirely harmless, but a second 
thought conveys to him the impression that she 
could be obstinate, or firm, or determined ; there are 
so many terms for it. Certainly her chin, short and 
upturned, looks a little unscrupulous. His glance 
wanders idly from Miss Deane to the man standing 
next to her. It is Deane ; that strange, unpleasant 
fellow whom Sir Lucien will persist in believing is 
in league with the purloiner of those abominable 
and troublesome lost stones. 

” Good-bye,” says Amber ; my cousin, I know, is 
waiting for me.” 

‘‘ So is your other cousin, her brother,” says Adare. 

He seems, judging from the eye he keeps on you, 
to be an excellent chaperon.” He smiles in an 
ordinary way, yet studies her face closely as he 
speaks. ‘ 

“You mistake; he has nothing to do with me. 
Esther is my chaperone !” says Amber, flushing and 
moving forward, as if to put an end to such un- 
pleasant questionings. 

“ One moment,” quickly. “You will let me intro- 
duce my sister to you ?” 

“ To what purpose ?” Her tone is cold, repellent, 
but there are tears in her eyes. 

“ To make you known to each other ; to 

Amber, do not refuse me this !” 

“ Oh,” — petulantly,— “ I refuse you nothing. It is 


S8 


A LONELY MAID. 


useless. I refused to see you again the last — the 

first — time we met, and yet now ” 

You will meet her, then ?” 

If — if your sister wishes to know me, I feel that 
to say no would be . . y 

She stops abruptly. May with Gilbert Grey is 
almost at their side. 

‘‘ May, this is our cousin. Amber O’Connell,'' says 
Hilary at once. “And this," indicating Grey, “is a 
cousin of yours and ours also. Mr. Grey, Miss 
O'Connell." 

“ How d'ye do ?" says May, the introduction to 
Grey having given her time to recover her extreme 
surprise, and holding out her hand with a warmth 
that goes far to kill for Amber those sad beliefs of 
hers as to the cruelty of all her mother’s relations. 
“ I was here some years ago, but we did not meet 
then.” 

“ I was in Paris with my mother." 

“ Happy you ! But now that we have met I hope 
we shall be friends." 

“ Poor old Molly," as her brother used to call Miss 
Adare, is now “ Good old Molly" in his estimation, 
with several other admiring adjectives thrown in. 

“ It takes time," says Amber, her earnest eyes 
fixed on May’s. 

“ To make a friendship ? Oh, but" — holding out 
her hand — “ not much time when it has to do with 
you and me." So prettily she says it that Amber, 
with a sudden smile that makes her beautiful face 
still more lovely, lays her hand in hers. 

“ It is a bargain," says May, gaily. 


A LONELY MAID. 


59 

‘‘Yes, even if — which is most likely — we never 
meet again.” 

“ Oh, but we shall — we shall !” says May. “ Going ? 
Well, remember our bargain. I shall come and see 
you soon — very soon.” 

♦ :1c :*c 5|c jK 

A general adieu is now being made in spite of 
Madam’s loud-voiced entreaties that they will stay ; 
till when, she does not make explicit, but till the 
crack of doom, judging by the affection of her 
manner. Mrs. Clarence, who is feeling a little bored, 
had been eager to go quite half an hour ago ; but, 
unfortunately, Owen could not be found. Mr. Ever- 
ard, who has been now sent on the quest, runs him 
to earth, after much trouble, in a distant corner of 
the shrubberies, where he seems to have been enjoy- 
ing a most peaceful and happy time with a Miss 
Bailey, a very pretty girl living in the neighbour- 
hood. 

Everard is conscious of a slight feeling of not so 
much surprise, perhaps, as curiosity, when he finds 
that Miss Bailey’s shoe is in Mr. McGrath’s hand. 
Of course her foot is not in the shoe, but still 

Miss Bailey, however, is quite equal to the occa- 
sion. 

“ It came off just now as I was walking through 
those wretched brambles outside,” says she, calmly, 
addressing Everard, whom she does not know ; “ and 
now he wants to put it on. But I shan’t let him. 
I” — turning her extremely pretty eyes on Owen — 
“ shan’t indeed. Not if you were to sit there for ever.” 

“ I’m really afraid he can’t do that,” says Everard, 


A LONELY MAID. 


58 

useless. I refused to see you again the last — the 

first — time we met, and yet now ” 

You will meet her, then ?” 

“ If — if your sister wishes to know me, I feel that 
to say no would be . . 

She stops abruptly. May with Gilbert Grey is 
almost at their side. 

‘‘ May, this is our cousin. Amber O’Connell,” says 
Hilary at once. ‘‘ And this,” indicating Grey, “ is a 
cousin of yours and ours also. Mr. Grey, Miss 
O’Connell.” 

‘‘ How d’ye do ?” says May, the introduction to 
Grey having given her time to recover her extreme 
surprise, and holding out her hand with a warmth 
that goes far to kill for Amber those sad beliefs of 
hers as to the cruelty of all her mother’s relations. 
‘‘ I was here some years ago, but we did not meet 
then.” 

“ I was in Paris with my mother.” 

“ Happy you ! But now that we have met I hope 
we shall be friends.” 

“ Poor old Molly,” as her brother used to call Miss 
Adare, is now “ Good old Molly” in his estimation, 
with several other admiring adjectives thrown in. 

It takes time,” says Amber, her earnest eyes 
fixed on May’s. 

“ To make a friendship ? Oh, but” — holding out 
her hand — ‘‘ not much time when it has to do with 
you and me.” So prettily she says it that Amber, 
with a sudden smile that makes her beautiful face 
still more lovely, lays her hand in hers. 

“ It is a bargain,” says May, gaily. 


A LONELY MAID. 


59 

Yes, even if — which is most likely — we never 
meet again/' 

“ Oh, but we shall — we shall !" says May. ‘‘ Going ? 
Well, remember our bargain. I shall come and see 
you soon — very soon." 

♦ :|C 3K ♦ * * 

A general adieu is now being made in spite of 
Madam's loud-voiced entreaties that they will stay ; 
till when, she does not make explicit, but till the 
crack of doom, judging by the affection of her 
manner. Mrs. Clarence, who is feeling a little bored, 
had been eager to go quite half an hour ago ; but, 
unfortunately, Owen could not be found. Mr. Ever- 
ard, who has been now sent on the quest, runs him 
to earth, after much trouble, in a distant corner of 
the shrubberies, where he seems to have been enjoy- 
ing a most peaceful and happy time with a Miss 
Bailey, a very pretty girl living in the neighbour- 
hood. 

Everard is conscious of a slight feeling of not so 
much surprise, perhaps, as curiosity, when he finds 
that Miss Bailey's shoe is in Mr. McGrath's hand. 
Of course her foot is not in the shoe, but still 

Miss Bailey, however, is quite equal to the occa- 
sion. 

“It came off just now as I was walking through 
those wretched brambles outside," says she, calmly, 
addressing Everard, whom she does not know ; “ and 
now he wants to put it on. But I shan't let him. 
I" — turning her extremely pretty eyes on Owen — 
“ shan’t indeed. Not if you were to sit there for ever." 

“ I'm really afraid he can't do that," says Everard, 


6o 


A LONELY MAID. 


regretfully. Fm so sorry to interfere with your 
sitting there for ever, Owen, in such charming com- 
pany, but your sister is waiting for you. She is 
going home.^’ 

‘‘ The going of all the sisters in Europe shall not 
make me go from my spoken word,’' declares Mr. 
McGrath, settling himself back in his seat with 
folded arms and a brow stern with determination. 

“ This is dreadful,” says Everard. ‘‘ Can I be of 
any use ? Can I ” He glances at the shoe. 

‘‘ Oh, if you will both put it on together I' says 
Miss Bailey, ‘‘ it won’t trouble me so much. But it 
must be together 

Mr. McGrath, seeing his way to thus keeping his 
honour intact, the shoe — a very dainty one — is re- 
stored to its foot, which is even daintier, and Miss 
Bailey rises to her feet and the occasion. 

Good-bye,” says she, gravely, giving Owen her 
hand. 

‘‘You must let us escort you to the house,” says 
Everard. 

“ No, thanks.” Miss Bailey gives a little glance 
over his shoulder. “ I think I see my mother over 
there. I shall go this way.” 

“You won’t forget the third waltz,” whispers 
Owen, affectionately. 

“You know it depends^ 

She has tripped away airily. 

“ Waltz !” says Everard. “ Where’s there going to 
be a waltz down here ?” 

“ Madam told me she’d give a dance if Sir Lucien 
would.” 


A LONELY MAID. 


6i 


‘'Which means that your chance of a waltz with 
that particular charming and — er — ingenuous Miss 
Bailey lies in the far far distance.’* 

Not a bit of it/’ says Mr. McGrath. " I’ll tackle 
the old boy. And if the worst comes to the worst, 
we’ll chain him and send out the invitations.” 

Everard has not time to recover from this auda- 
cious proposal before the carriage is in sight, and 
Mrs. Clarence has ordered Owen to his seat in it. 

She seems to be in a desperate hurry to get back to 
“ dinner and respectability,” as she puts it. " Really, 
the people there to-day were for the most part insuf- 
ferable. I did pity us all. That ‘ Mrs. Madam’ ought 
to be taken up !” 

"By you?” inquires her brother, innocently. 
" I daresay a season in town under your wing 
might ” 

He is never allowed to finish his sentence. 


CHAPTER VII. 


“ Mere waste of time.’* 


I SHALL call on her/* says May. Dinner is over, 
and Sir Lucien having stalked off as usual to the 
cold seclusion of his library, they are all free to dis- 
cuss everything in earth or heaven. Dolly, you’ll 
come with me, won’t you ?” 

‘‘Delighted,” says Mrs. Clarence. “Anything for 
a sensation in this benighted spot. When” — lan- 
guidly — “do you start? Now?” “Now” is ten 
o’clock. 

“ Oh, if you’re going to be sarcastic,” says May. 
“ Gilbert, will you come ?” 

“ If Grey goes, / don’t,” declares Mr. McGrath, 
with determination, in the tone of hidden devotion to 
May that he knows alway*? incenses Grey. 

“ I haven’t asked you, Owen,” Miss Adare reminds 
him, with a touch of dignity. 

“ You and Dolly had better go alone, if you mean 
it,” says Adare. There’s a vibration in his voice, a 
sudden sharp interest, that makes Everard raise his 
eyes from the magazine he is reading to cast a fur- 
tive glance at him. 

“ But why go ?” asks Mrs. Clarence, lazily. “ It 
seems such a silly visit, with no meaning in it. Now, 
62 


A LONELY AIAID. 


63 


if we called to ask her to spend a week here — you 
know I suggested that at first — there would be some- 
thing in it. But as it is ” 

“ I’m afraid that would be hopeless,” says May. 

‘‘ Why should it be ?” says Adare. “ Why” — 
frowning — ‘‘should our cousin not be asked here? 
She has had nothing to do with the loss of those 
jewels, at all events.” 

“ If anyone were to suggest to Sir Lucien that 
she had something to do with them, he’d ask her 
here at once,” says Mrs. Clarence, with an air of 
lazy amusement. 

“ But who would suggest it ?” It is May’s ques- 
tion. 

“ I would,” says Mrs. Clarence, with her mis- 
chievous little laugh. “ Shall I ?” 

Once again Everard lifts his eyes to study Hilary’s 
face. Here is the test. 

“ Certainly not.” Adare’s voice is cold and de- 
cisive. “ It would be an Insult to — to any girl to be 
laid under such a suspicion.” 

“You would never make a Jesuit, Hilary,” says 
Mrs. Clarence, who looks amused — has she, too, 
divined his secret? — “you would not countenance 
the evil out of which good might come.” 

“ For all that. I’ll ask him,” declares May. “ I’ll 
risk it. He can’t eat me, and Td love to have her 
here. Isn’t she pretty? Isn’t she a darling? You 
know Uncle Lucien has been interviewing that 
cousin of hers, Mr. Deane, ever since he came down 
here, questioning him about those stones that are 
lost; and as Uncle Lucien is very angry with him 


64 ’ 


j4 lonely maid. 


because he can’t find out anything from him, he 
might like to spite him by asking Amber here.” 

‘‘ How would that spite Mr. Deane ?” asks Gilbert 
Grey. 

‘‘Because” — airily — “Mr. Deane is in love with 
Amber.” 

“ What?"' says Adare. 

“ Oh' yes, it’s quite true, Hilary. I know. I saw 
how he looked at her yesterday !” There is a pause. 
Really, from May, who is the gayest of all butter- 
flies, this is immense. 

“ Our little May!” murmurs Mr. McGrath, faintly. 
“Sounds like the name of a short story, don’t it? 
To think that she ” 

Somebody throws a cushion at him. 

“ What an awful gown Madam had on to-day I” 
says Mrs. Clarence, turning the conversation. “ Good 
heavens ! What a shade 1 It made my eyes burn. 
And so old — so ” Words fail her. 

“ It ought to be turned out to grass,” agrees her 
brother, pathetically. “ It’s too old to work.” 

“ I like her,” says Adare. This is so sudden, so 
unexpected, that they all look at him. 

“ Really, I think, so do I.” May, as a rule, always 
follows her brother’s lead. “ She isn’t half bad, and 
I think it was rather nice of her to think of giving a 
dance.” 

“ She won’t give one unless Sir Lucien does.” 

“ Well, he may,” says Owen. 

“ Why not ?” puts in May, valiantly. 

At this all laugh or jeer as is their nature to. 

“ Fancy believing Sir Lucien would put one hand 


A LONELY MAID. 


65 


before the other to please anyone/* says Mrs. Clar- 
ence. “ You and May must be full of faith. I can*t 
say how I admire you ! As for me, I have none. 
You see, I have made him a special study for so 
many years.** 

And she is quite right, as the future proves. When 
the subject was broached to Sir Lucien, his indigna- 
tion knew no bounds. A dance in his house ! Never ! 

Despair fell upon the younger members of his 
household; but presently, when Madam O’Fla- 
herty, after calling Sir Lucien an old wretch” and 
various other unpleasant names, thus relieving her 
feelings nobly, declared herself eager to give her 
dance ‘‘in spite of him,’* peace was restored with 
honour ! But this is anticipating. 

“Well, if he won’t, he won’t,” says Owen, taking 
all the airs of an advanced philosopher, “ and if 
Madam will, she will. There’s comfort somewhere ! 
Though, after all,” — falling suddenly from his late 
high level to a very despondent one, — “ who knows ? 
How is one to trust anybody nowadays ?” 

“ By their faces,” says Everard, who never in his 
life trusted anybody. 

“ Hers is like a soup-tureen ?” says McGrath, pen- 
sively. “ How does one trust a soup-tureen ?” 

“ Oh !” says May, “ you can’t take people feature 
by feature.” 

“ Can’t I ? What a pity ! There are some people 
I would gladly take by one feature now and again.’* 
Does his eye rest on Grey ? 

“ I had quite a long conversation with Madam,** 
goes on May in her prattling fashion. “ She is ever 


66 


A LONELY MAID, 


SO nice and pleasant when one forgets her queer 
manners and looks, which certainly are awful ! She 
grew quite confidential with me, and old ladies 
don’t, as a rule, care about talking to girls, you 
know.” 

“ Ah ! the modesty, the modesty of her !” says 
Owen, with a rapt gaze that brings Grey to the verge 
of murder. 

“ And,” May goes on, without heeding, though 
she looks so big and so strong, do you know she is 
very delicate ” 

Here even Everard, who laughs on very rare oc- 
casions, gives way. 

Oh ! very well.” May is evidently affronted. She 
casts a scathing glance at Grey, who, too, has suc- 
cumbed to mirth in spite of all his efforts; a vision 
of Madam, bouncing, red, vigorous, in the sailor hat, 
proving too much for him. “ But I can tell you it is 
true. She told me that she suffers greatly from 
neuralgia and asthma and ” 

Did she, by any chance,” interrupts Mr. McGrath, 
looking as if he were athirst for information, amongst 
all her many ailments, mention fatty degeneration of 
the nose?'' 

No,” very angrily. 

What I principally object to,” says Mrs. Clar- 
ence, plaintively, breaking into the conversation as 
one might who believes war imminent, and would 
like to circumvent it, “ as I think I told you before, 
is her inquisitiveness. That” — even more plaintively 
— '‘is a long word, isn’t it? But she was queerer 
than ever to-day.’" 


A LONELY MAID. 


67 


More searching in her remarks V* 

“ Far more. But I baffled her, I think. Owen,*' 
to a carefully inattentive brother, “you owe me 
five pounds." 

“ That’s easily said, my good child," says Owen, 
who finds it impossible to evade her. “ But the 
proofs — the proofs ?" 

“ The proofs are that she asked me more questions 
than I can remember, and that I never answered any 
one of them." 

“ But how," asks Adare, who has grown interested 
because he also has suffered at Madam s hands, do 
you manage it ?" 

“ Yes, tell us," says May. 

“ I said ‘ I don’t know’ to everything." 

“ Oh ! impossible." 

“ It sounds so," says Mrs. Clarence, triumphantly; 
but really I did it. It was a feat ; I shall always 
be proud of it. First she got me into a corner, like 
over there, behind that screen, where" — with an 
eloquent gesture — “ escape was noty as" — with a little 
moue — “ she thought, and then she began, ^ Where is 
your husband now, my dear ?’ ' I don’t know,’ I 

said. ‘ How extraordinary! I heard lately he was 
in the Corea, or was it in Constantinople?’ 'I 
don’t know. Madam.’ ‘ Now I think of it,’ said she, 
‘ it was the coast of Borneo.’ ‘ Was it ? I don’t 
know,’ said I, sweetly. ‘ He is coming home shortly, 
anyway, isn’t he?’ She was getting a little furious 
here, and this gave me strength. ‘ I don’t know,’ I 
said, with my best smile. ‘‘You hear from him oc- 
casionally. He tells you how he is going on . . • 


68 


A LONELY MAID. 


How is he going on ?’ 'I don’t know/ ' You’ — she 
was very angry here— ought \.o know ! You are his 
wife, I suppose? You feel like a wife?’ It was an 
awful question. ‘ I don’t know,’ I said. At that 
she grew mad. ' Are you a woman at all ? ’ cried she. 
‘ I don’t know,’ I cried in turn, quite plaintively. And 
at that she fled. I have come to the conclusion,” 
says Dolly, thoughtfully, “ that if you say * I don’t 
know’ straight through your life you will come out 
at the other end of it a most immaculate person. I 
wish I had learned the lesson earlier. By-the-bye, 
Owen, that five pounds is mine, isn’t it ? \ do de- 

serve it.” 

“ Oh ! — er — our bet ?” says Mr. McGrath, to whom 
a fiver means something. 

Next week will do,” says his sister, turning 
away. 

'' Got to pay, old man,” murmurs Gilbert Grey, in 
a whisper, out of which in vain he tries to take the 
sounding note of joy. ‘‘ Your sister’s won.” 

“ Has she ?” says Owen, gloomily. 

‘‘ Can there be a doubt ?” 

McGrath eyes him heavily. 

I dotC t know says he, copying his sister’s voice 
to a nicety. “ But there’s one thing I do know— 
that my sister is damn smart !” 

‘‘ My dear fellow !” 

“ I don’t care a ” 

‘‘ Oh, not again I” 

‘‘ She certainly is a little troublesome about asking 
questions,” May is saying to Everard, d propos of 
Madam O’Flaherty. 


A LONELY MAID. 69 

regular Magnall/' says Owen, who is still 
gloomy. ‘‘ She rakes one fore and aft.'^ 

“ I think she ought to be put in the Litany and 
prayed for,’’ says Mrs. Clarence. 

‘‘ So do I,” growls Grey, thoughtful. A woman 
who could put caraway seeds in a sponge cake 

Past praying for,” says Everard, who had in a 
sad moment eaten some of the dreadful compound 
in question. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Youth, I do adore thee. 

O ! my love, my love is young !” 

By a singular clause in the will of Sir Lucien 
Adare's grandfather, some old and absolutely unique 
jewels were to go to the eldest daughter of the house 
on her marriage — to be held by her in pawn, as it 
were, until she either had a son or died. If she died 
without leaving a son to inherit them, they went 
back to the head of the family. The head of the 
family in this instance meant Sir Lucien. Sir 
Lucien’s father. Sir John Adare, had left three chil- 
dren, the present baronet and his brother — who had 
died very shortly after May's birth, and when Hilary 
was about seven years old — and an only daughter 
Lilian. The latter was the idol of his heart. 

She was a wilful, wild, disobedient creature, ex- 
traordinarily beautiful, but perverse and unmanage- 
able; yet the old man adored her for her beauty, 
and even when she openly and defiantly married a 
man who was half a bankrupt already (it did not 
take her long to make him one completely), — a mere 
mill-owner, a person who, though his forefathers 
had been of decent birth, had never been received 
into the society round, — he forgave her. Forgave 
70 


A LONELY MAID, 


7 ^ 


her so completely as to absolutely refuse to dispute 
her right to those old jewels, which she most inso- 
lently demanded, and which were worth, as Everard 
had said, a king’s ransom, although his eldest son 
Lucien had almost resorted to violence to compel 
him to do so. 

“ It was a sacrilege !” said Lucien, fighting then 
as always for his rights. ‘‘ There must be some law 
to prevent the giving away of a huge fortune to a 
mere contemptible miller.” 

But the old man was obstinate. He would not 
dispute that strange clause in his father’s will. Lilian 
was to have the jewels for her lifetime, and after her 
they would go to her son. If there was no son, 
Lucien would have them — in time. 

As a fact there was no son, only a little daughter 
born after many years; a tiny thing carried hither 
and thither; from Paris to Berlin, from Berlin to 
Italy, and back again wherever the wilful, restless 
mother elected to go. If to travel means a liberal 
education, Amber was indeed highly educated ; she 
learned to speak many languages ; she caught a grace 
of manner that held to her always ; she was dis- 
tinctly strong on geography, so far as Europe was 
concerned, but she was disgracefully weak on the 
tender mercies of one’s neighbours. 

When she was fifteen her mother died, leaving the 
girl to her father’s care. A short guardianship, as 
he died six months later, unable, some said, to sur- 
vive the beautiful woman who had so cruelly treated 
him, so recklessly ruined him. 

Even as she lay on her death-bed, Lucien (now 


72 


A LONELY MAID. 


Sir Lucien) had begun inquiries about the jewels. 
But Mrs. O’Connell had laughed at him, and had 
indeed died flouting him. He should never see them 
— never ! 

She had beckoned to the stupid man who had 
married her, and had not even sense enough to re- 
pent, and pulling him down to her with her thin 
arms in a last eager effort, had whispered something 
into his ear. He was ‘‘ to promise — to swear.” She 
was dying, and he promised. He had been her slave 
all his life; it was not likely that when grief intoler- 
able held him, he should even try to break his bonds. 

Resolutely ignored by her family all along, when 
he declared ignorance of the whereabouts of the 
jewels after her death, no one believed him. His 
own death six months later complicated matters. 

That the stones, the sapphire necklace especially, 
had been sold was a preposterous idea. The neck- 
lace was famous, and indeed the central sapphire was 
supposed to be the largest in the world. The great 
engines of the law were set to work, but nothing 
came of all their whirligigs. And from then to now 
no tale nor tidings of the missing jewels had been 
heard. 

Of late, however, a month or two ago, the knowl- 
edge that Brian Deane, O’Connell’s nephew, had 
come back from abroad ‘‘ on business” had come to 
Sir Lucien’s ears. Business ? What business could 
a man of Deane’s stamp have in Ireland ? He was 
doing tolerably well in Australia as a sheep farmer. 
But business in such a remote little corner of the 
world as Carrig! When Sir Lucien’s lawyer in 


A LONELY MAID. 


73 


London saw nothing in his coming, Sir Lucien told 
him, with all his usual urbanity, that he was a fool, 
and started straight for Carrig ; and as he hated being 
alone, without someone on whom to exercise his 
caustic wit and vile temper, he made a virtue of 
necessity, and tried to compel some of his relations 
and entreat others to accompany him. Finally he 
got together neither those who were compelled or 
were entreated, but a few who from various reasons 
desired to get out of town for a bit. Amongst them, 
as we know, Hilary Adare, his nephew and heir. 

“ May, look here,'* says Captain Adare, pulling his 
sister into the library after luncheon. “ Did you mean 
what you said last night 
About Amber ?” 

‘‘Yes. That you were going to get him to ask 
her here 

“ Of course I meant if’ 

His surprise at her courage renders him dumb for 
a moment. 

“ Well — ask him now,” says he. 

“ I could have asked him five minutes ago only for 
you. You would keep talking of partridges. How- 
ever, ‘ now,’ as you call it, is always the best time.” 
As she speaks she leaves the room. 

Adare, thus abandoned to his own thoughts, gives 
them up to nothing but wonder at the courage that 
can lie within so frail a body. As for him / Big and 
strong as he is, he would have thought for many 
days before plucking up courage to tackle Sir Lucien 
on such a question as this — or any other, either ! 

D 7 


74 


A LONELY MAID, 


He is still wondering when May returns. 

Well/’ says he, anticipating defeat. 

It is well. I am to invite her to come here on 
Friday. This day week.” 

^^Nor 

‘‘Yes, really. Of course he has something on his 
mind. I think from what he said that he believes 
Brian Deane is in love with her, and that her coming 
here — her being acknowledged — will please him so 
much that he will give in and make some sort of a 
compromise about those stones. I was wrong when 
I thought he would ask her here to spile him. But 
really, Hilary, I don’t think that dreadful man Deane 
knows anything of them, and even if he did. Amber’s 
coming would not induce him to give them up.” 

“ Oh ! he’s mad on the point of those stones,” says 
Hilary, impatiently. “ I don’t believe he’ll ever see 
or hear of them again. But all that is beside the 
mark. Do you mean to tell me, in cold blood, that 
Sir Lucien has actually given you permission to ask 
Am — our cousin — here ?” 

“ He has, indeed. But, Hilary, why are you 
so ” She hesitates. 

“ So what?” 

“So glad?” 

“ Well, because — because I love her, I think,” says 
Adare, quite simply. “ And as for you, how can I 
thank you ? How can I show my gratitude ? What 
would you like. May ?” 

“ I don’t want anything,” says May. “ Not really !” 

“ Unreally, then ? Too late to offer you a doll, I 
suppose ?” 


A LONELY MAID, 


75 

To his surprise, May’s face turns scarlet. Fancy 
her caring so much about that good old tease ! 

‘‘ Oh ! by the way ” he muses. Gilbert Grey 

comes into his musings. 

‘‘ Never mind, then,” says he. ‘‘ It shan’t be a doll. 
It shall be a ” He doesn’t go further, but it re- 

solves itself later on into a charming gold and pearl 
bangle, that is the joy of her heart for a week or so. 
He contents himself, and the gratitude within him 
at the present, by stroking her hair the wrong way 
up, as men always do when they forget themselves 
and feel really affectionate. 

‘‘ Oh ! don't! ” says May, with a little frown. Her 
hair is hopelessly disarranged. Then all at once 
she laughs. ‘‘ Don’t rub up her hair like that,” 
says she, because if you do, she’ll certainly refuse 
you !” She grows frightened here, and very grave. 
Her own words spoken aloud have laid bare the 
truth and the probably terrible consequences. Oh ! 
am I right, Hilary, in doing this — in helping 
you ? Is it wise of you to — to think of a girl 
who ” 

‘‘ Is the one girl in the world for me ?” says Hil- 
ary. ‘‘ No use in going over and over it. May. She 
is the one girl !” 

But there was that other girl. Miss Yardley, you 
know. I thought ” 

Oh ! nonsense !” says Adare. But he grows very 
red, for all that. Miss Yardley had once been the 
prettiest girl in the world,” and, therefore, now her 
very name is hateful to him, as being an insult to 
Amber. ‘‘ As if a fellow can’t look at a girl without 


A LONELY MAID. 


76 

all his sisters and cousins and aunts considering him 
in love with her.*' 

Oh, yes, of course ; I see. I quite see. But — 
now dofit fly out at me again — but what I’m afraid 
of is that as a wife for you she is hardly desirable !” 

“ Look here,” says Adare, shortly, ‘‘ I’ll put it to 
you straight. If Gilbert Grey came under the head 
of ‘undesirable,’ would you throw him over?” 

“ Oh ! that’s absurd,” says May, colouring hotly. 
“ One can’t throw over one who hasn’t ” 

“ Well, but if he had — would you ?” 

“ It’s so stupid,” says she. 

“ Well, hang it ! Can’t you say ? Wojild you ?” 

“ How horrid you are, Hilary !” She is now walk- 
ing angrily away from him. She turns, however, at 
the last moment. ” I’ll do what I can for you and 
your Amber,” says she, in a muffled tone, ” in spite 
of your horridness. But I never thought it of you, 
Hilary !” 


CHAPTER IX. 


“ As day went down the music grew apace.*^ 

It is very close on October, and the young hounds 
are being brought out, in the light of the now some- 
what surly mornings, with a view to looking after 
their education. It is early, no doubt, to think of 
knocking knowledge into them (this does not apply 
so much to their tender years as to the hour of the 
day), but Kinahan, the old huntsman, who has for 
thirty years held high mastership over the kennels 
at Carrig Castle, — kennels kept up to do Sir Lucien 
justice, whether he is here or not, — thinking very 
highly of the coming lot of pups, has elected (incited 
thereto by Mr. McGrath) to bring them out this 
morning, — a delicious, if rather chilly one, — with sun- 
shine sparkling on the slightly frosted leaves : there 
was a little hoar frost last night, — a matter that is now 
regarded by Kinahan as a special injustice on the part 
of Nature. 

Adare, dragged out of his bed by Owen, started 
with them, followed them through brake and brier, 
sympathised deeply with old Kinahan's loud curses 
over the shortcomings of some of his pack — saw 
things out to the end really ; and then, finding him- 
self and his horse on the top of a hill that looks 

7 * 77 


A LONELY MAID, 


78 

Straight down on the old mill, hesitates about going 
home, though he is starving with hunger. Finally — 
love is a great satisfier— he rushes his good little mare 
down the hill and makes straight for the mill. Will 
she be there ? 

When a man is in love, who backs him up? Not 
his own fellows ; they all count him fool ! Women 
don’t, however ! The man who loves them is wise, 
say they. 

Hilary, having left his horse in the care of a woman 
whose cabin is noticeable from the road, goes on foot 
to the mill. Yesterday May had told him of Sir 
Lucien’s consent to her asking Amber to the Castle. 
To-day he will tell Amber — try to persuade her to 
accept the invitation. But will she be here? A 
turn in the road shows him the window in the old 
mill where first he had seen her, and again a little, 
slim figure — not now in white, indeed, but in dark 
blue serge — catches his eye. 

Adare’s step quickens, and very soon he has passed 
over the sodden grasses and weeds lying so thickly 
and darkly in the enclosure round the old ruin, and 
having come to the torn-down doorway, mounts the 
steps with a beating heart, if a glad one, and all at 
once sees himself in her presence. 

“ Finding myself here, so close, I thought, you 
know, seeing you in the window, I might ” 

Thus far he flounders, getting redder with every 
word, when she stops him with a smile. 

‘‘ Of course you might,” says she, very prettily. 
Her own face is not innocent of Nature’s dye. 

“ I’m so awfully muddy,” says he, glancing dowm 


A LONELY MAID. 


79 


at his breeches and boots, that are indeed a good 
deal splashed. He is providentially unaware of the 
huge blobs of mud that adorn his nose and the 
comer of his left eye, or his confusion would have 
been worse confounded ; but it is not until he gets 
home, considerably later, that he becomes aware of 
these facial adornments, and gives way on the head 
of them to a few strong but well-chosen adjectives. 

“ The roads must be bad to-day. However,’* — with 
a little laugh, — I was prepared for you. I saw you 
coming.” 

You did y' — reproachfully, — ‘‘yet made no sign. 
You might have given me some small encourage- 
ment.” 

” I might have waved my handkerchief, certainly,” 
with a little provocative glance at him from under 
her long lashes. ‘‘ It would have been artistic — 
mediaeval — of the long, long ago days ; and really 
sometimes” — with a sudden change of tone that has 
perhaps a sigh in it — “ I do sometimes feel like 
Mariana in her moated grange.” 

“ That’s the very last thing you could ever be,” 
says Adare, with healthy certainty. ‘‘ Wherever you 
were, even if it were a locked-up tower or a donjon 
keep, he would be sure to come to you. Nothing 
would prevent him.” 

He is quite unaware of the force v/ith which he 
speaks, or the personal turn the expression of his eye 
has given to this speech. Therefore, when a little 
warm blush grows from Amber’s chin to the roots of 
her sweet, soft hair, a pang shoots through his 
heart. 


78 


A LONELY MAID, 


straight down on the old mill, hesitates about going 
home, though he is starving with hunger. Finally — 
love is a great satisfier — he rushes his good little mare 
down the hill and makes straight for the mill. Will 
she be there ? 

When a man is in love, who backs him up? Not 
his own fellows ; they all count him fool ! Women 
don’t, however ! The man who loves them is wise, 
say they. 

Hilary, having left his horse in the care of a woman 
whose cabin is noticeable from the road, goes on foot 
to the mill. Yesterday May had told him of Sir 
Lucien’s consent to her asking Amber to the Castle. 
To-day he will tell Amber — try to persuade her to 
accept the invitation. But will she be here? A 
turn in the road shows him the window in the old 
mill where first he had seen her, and again a little, 
slim figure — not now in white, indeed, but in dark 
blue serge — catches his eye. 

Adare’s step quickens, and very soon he has passed 
over the sodden grasses and weeds lying so thickly 
and darkly in the enclosure round the old ruin, and 
having come to the torn-down doorway, mounts the 
steps with a beating heart, if a glad one, and all at 
once sees himself in her presence. 

Finding myself here, so close, I thought, you 
know, seeing you in the window, I might ” 

Thus far he flounders, getting redder with every 
word, when she stops him with a smile. 

“Of course you might,” says she, very prettily. 
Her own face is not innocent of Nature’s dye. 

“ I’m so awfully muddy,” says he, glancing down 


A LONELY MAID. 


79 


at his breeches and boots, that are indeed a good 
deal splashed. He is providentially unaware of the 
huge blobs of mud that adorn his nose and the 
corner of his left eye, or his confusion would have 
been worse confounded ; but it is not until he gets 
home, considerably later, that he becomes aware of 
these facial adornments, and gives way on the head 
of them to a few strong but well-chosen adjectives. 

‘‘ The roads must be bad to-day. However,'* — with 
a little laugh, — ‘‘ I was prepared for you. I saw you 
coming." 

‘‘You did'' — reproachfully, — “yet made no sign. 
You might have given me some small encourage- 
ment." 

“ I might have waved my handkerchief, certainly," 
with a little provocative glance at him from under 
her long lashes. “ It would have been artistic — 
mediaeval — of the long, long ago days ; and really 
sometimes" — with a sudden change of tone that has 
perhaps a sigh in it — “ I do sometimes feel like 
Mariana in her moated grange." 

“ That’s the very last thing you could ever be," 
says Adare, with healthy certainty. “ Wherever you 
were, even if it were a locked-up tower or a donjon 
keep, he would be sure to come to you. Nothing 
would prevent him." 

He is quite unaware of the force with which he 
speaks, or the personal turn the expression of his eye 
has given to this speech. Therefore, when a little 
warm blush grows from Amber’s chin to the roots of 
her sweet, soft hair, a pang shoots through his 
heart. 


8o 


A LONELY MAID, 


Perhaps he has come already,” says he, blurting 
out his fear at once. 

Oh, no, no ; no, indeed !” says Amber, quickly, 
her eyes resting earnestly on his. But it’s stupid 
to talk like this, isn’t it ? About” — with a little frown 
— ‘‘ you or me, I mean.” 

I can’t think that there could be anything better 
to talk about than you,” says he, growing bold 
through the relief that her denial of another has 
given him. There is no faintest thought of disbe- 
lieving her ; her eyes so clear, so calm, her mouth so 
beautiful and steadfast, would shame to death any 
suspicion of her, even in the grossest mind. 

‘‘ Well — but ” She finds herself at a loss ; 

then, by a valiant effort, thinks of something that 
will overcome the awkward moment. 

How are you out so early ?” 

‘‘ Cub-hunting.” 

‘^You must have left home at dawn, then. Sit 
down there, won’t you ?” 

“ In the dark almost, and” — laughing — '' with a 
most uncommonly bad breakfast. Our beloved 
uncle’s servants don’t run to much.” 

And no luncheon !” with quite a horrified air. 

“Oh, I expect when I get back I’ll be able to 
knock something out of the butler.” 

Then you ought to go at once'' says she. 

“ Oh, I say, I do call that uncivil,” says Adare. In 
spite of the incivility, however, he holds on fast to 
the seat (an old box) she has offered him, and shows 
no disposition to withdraw. 

“ You must be starving,” says she. “ If ” 


She 


A LONELY MAID. 


8l 


hesitates, then stoops and pulls from beneath a 
broken-down old bit of board that once had repre- 
sented, perhaps, part of a sill to the window — now 
destitute of sill and sash and shutter — a stout little 
basket, and nervously, and very shyly, bending her 
head lower than she really need with a view to 
hiding her face, says, softly, ‘‘ I brought some sand- 
wiches here with me; I — made them myself I — 
Esther thinks me very unsociable, but I do love to 
come down here and be alone, sometimes, for a little 
while. I’m afraid” — shamefacedly — '' they are not 
very nice sandwiches, and” — here she seems to grow 
quite broken-hearted — “ there is only lemonade. But 
if you will ” 

“ I will, indeed,” says Adare, and with all my 
heart, too,” seeing that to refuse her will chagrin her 
sadly, though indeed there are not many sandwiches. 
'‘And as for lemonade, I love it! It’s one of the 
best drinks I know. Ever make it in a jug, with 
lemons and sugar and things ? Tip-top, I can tell 
you. And these sandwiches I Do you mean you 
made them yourself? They’re like wafers. You’re 
a perfect Sybarite! You ought to be ashamed of 
yourself Go on! I’ve had two; you’ve had only 
one.” 

" Oh, no ; they are all for you,” says Amber, who 
is now in her gayest of gay spirits. 

" For me ! I like that ! But what have we here?” 
diving into the stout little basket and bringing up a 
small loaf and a pat of butter. 

" Oh ! fancy my forgetting those !” says Amber. 

They were for my little boy, who lives on the hill 

/ 


84 


A LONELY MAID, 


coming of his sister's visit on Friday next and the 
invitation from Sir Lucien. 

‘‘ I’ve got something to tell you,” says he. “ You 
won’t like it, I’m afraid, but — Sir Lucien wants you 
to come and stay with us for a week or so.” 

Amber stares at him. 

“ Sir Lucien — Sir Lucien wants me to Oh !” 

— turning away — ‘‘ it is absurd.” 

“ It is not, indeed. And I entreat you to accept 
his invitation.” 

‘‘ /—-to accept it.” 

‘‘Yes. Why not? Look here now” — eagerly — 
“ you are mad with him because you say he has 
made all the countryside round believe your father 
had a hand in the selling or doing away with these 
jewels. Well, if you accept this invitation, all your 
neighbours will hear of your being a visitor at your 
uncle’s house, and it will do away with all that old 
gossip, won^t it ?” 

“ I don’t know,” says Amber, in a troubled tone. 
She had been carried away somewhat by his elo- 
quence — an eloquence that came from his heart. 

“ It will vindicate your father’s memory. It will, 
indeed. You can see that,” goes on Hilary, pressing 
his advantage and feeling like a modern Machiavelli 
— a veritable Jesuit. Surely he, if anyone ever was 
guilty of it, is doing evil that good may come ; for 
very well he knows that the invitation to Amber 
would never have been given by Sir Lucien but for 
his belief that Deane knows something of the missing 

jewels. And to get at Deane through Amber The 

idea had struck Sir Lucien as worthy of consideration. 


A LONELY MAID. 


S5 


‘‘ If I thought that ” says she, slowly. 

‘‘ You may think it. You must!' 

‘‘Well, ril go,*' says she. “Not that I want to, 
you know" — puckering up her pretty brows into a 
convincing frown — “ but " 

“ That’s a promise," says he, joyfully. He holds 
out his hands, and she, with a little laugh that dis- 
perses the charming frown at once, lays hers in his. 

Dear little hands ! In the delight of the moment 
— the triumph of her consent — he stoops, as if to 
kiss them ; then, even in the act of stooping, stops 
short. His eyes become riveted on one of the pretty 
hands he holds — the right one. Every particle of 
colour in his face dies away. 

“ Amber," says he, straightening himself and 
speaking slowly, and certainly with difficulty, “ where 
did you get those rings ?" 


8 


CHAPTER X. 

“ When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, 

I all alone be weep my outcast state.” 

He is still staring, as if fascinated, as if disbelieving 
the sight of his own eyes, at her hand. On it shine 
two rings ; one is a magnificent sapphire, the other a 
circlet of opals with a diamond of great value in its 
centre. Adare knows them. The old descriptive list 
of the missing jewels, lent, under certain conditions, 
to Amber’s mother, is well known to him. These 
two rings, amongst many other far more important 
possessions, assuredly belong to the lost collection. 

“ These ?” Amber spread out her small, lovable, 
brown little hands before her and lets the rings — the 
wonderful rings — that shine upon them, make full 
play in the fitful light. Aren’t they pretty? I 
only wear them sometimes. I don’t know why I 
put them on to-day. But I’m glad now, because 
you can see them. Mother gave them to me. They 
are pretty, aren’t they ?” She pauses, but is so taken 
up with her delight in her jewelled toys (the poor 
child has had very few toys of any sort in her strange 
wandering life, and very little love too !) that she does 
not notice how he lifts his head, that has been low- 
86 


A LONELY MAID. 87 

ered, and makes an effort as if to speak — an effort 
beyond him for the moment. 

Do you know, sometimes,’' goes on Amber, hap- 
pily, as if delighting in her subject, when the sun 
shines on them, I think they are like all the flowers 
on earth caught together in one big glimmer. That’s 
a stupid idea, I know, and sometimes I don’t forgive 
myself for it, because as lovely as these stones are” 
— glancing at her hand — flowers are a great deal 
lovelier. Still these are very beautiful, aren’t they ? 
I’m so glad mother gave them to me.” 

I’m afraid,” says Adare, slowly and with his very 
heart dying within him at having to say this awful 
thing; yet to let her wear them — this innocent girl — 
this girl who is all the world to him — seems, oh ! 
not only seems, but is impossible, that your mother 
had no right to give them to you.” 

Her eyes now fill with surprise. There is no 
anger yet, only surprise. 

“ No right ?” 

Think what you will of me,” says he, desperately, 
‘‘ I must tell you the truth. Those rings belong to 
the jewels that your — that Sir Lucien is looking 
for.” 

Amber makes a little movement. It brings her 
nearer to him. There is terrible anger in her eyes. 

‘‘ You mean ?” says she. 

‘‘ Let me speak to you. Explain. Why should 
you look at me like that? I mean that those 
rings ” He cannot go on. 

She takes his difficulty from him. 

” Oh ! no, no, no r cries she, eagerly, passionately, 


88 


A LONELY MAW, 


as if with intent of staying his next words. ‘^You 
are wrong, quite wrong — my mother gave them to 
me. They could not belong to the jewels that are 
lost. She gave them to me the very night before 
she died. Would she give them to me then — and to 
me — a child — a mere child — if they were not honestly 
her own ?” 

He is silent. It is perhaps the most dreadful mo- 
ment of his life. How can he speak ? — how reassure 
her? 

His silence strikes to her very heart. 

“You don’t believe!’' cries she, in a low but vehe- 
ment tone. “ Take them, then. Take them !” She 
pulls them from her fingers, and dashes them with a 
superb gesture of scorn and righteous anger and 
conscious innocence at his feet. 

They roll round and round, but by a most marvel- 
lous chance do not reach any of the many crevices 
in the old and broken flooring. 

“ Let me speak !” 

“ No. Not one word 1 Go 1 Do you hear. Go!'" 

“ Not till you hear me I” He stands doggedly be- 
fore her. He is fighting, as he knows, for his 
life. 

“ I will not hear you. Why should I ? * What are 
you to me ? A month ago” — with a cruel little smile 
— “ I never even heard of you ! I care nothing at 
all about you. Indeed” — throwing out her hands 
with a widening and increasing in the cruelty of the 
smile — “ you are less than nothing to me I” 

“ Is that true ?” says he ; and then suddenly catch- 
ing her hands, “ I don’t believe it.” 


A LONELY MAID, 


89 


'' No?'* she laughs aloud. Such a miserable laugh. 

“ What do you believe ? Neither in me, nor in 
my father nor my mother. Not even in your uncle, 
Sir Lucien, who has been the cause of this last in- 
sult. Did he employ you ? Did he send you here ? 
Are you a spy ?" The smile, now dreadful as her 
words, is still upon her lips, and she is facing him 
bravely, defying him, with all the courage of the 
good old race from which she has sprung, her small 
-head tilted backwards, when suddenly something 
happens ! 

The small and slender frame falls a-trembling. 
She raises two shaking hands to her eyes, and, turn- 
ing sharply aside, ashamed — crushed to the very 
soul that he should see her humiliation — she bursts 
into a passion of tears. 

A silence, with nothing but that most heart-broken 
sobbing. 

“ Amber," exclaims he, hoarsely. He goes to her 
and ventures to touch one of those small hands, so 
wildly pressed against the bursting lids. 

But she shrinks away from him. “ Don't touch 
me. Don't. I could not bear it." 

‘‘ Don't cry like that, then," says he, savagely. “ It 
drives me mad. I wish to God I had never said a' 
word about those cursed rings. Even now, if you 
wish it, you can keep them. No one knows of them 
but you and " 

“ Is this another insult?" exclaims she. “ Do you 
think I would have you keep back your knowledge 
of those rings ? Do you think I want to keep them ? 
I suppose my manner is ungracious, but— please 
8 * 


90 


A LONELY MAID. 


pick them up, and*' — with a lightning glance at him 
that very nearly kills him — go away." 

She turns from him, scorn and anger in her whole 
air. 

‘‘ It shall be as you will, of course," says he, with 
regard to my going. But I have nothing whatever 
to do with those rings ; they are yours so far. Sir 
Lucien may lay claim to them, but how does that 
concern me ? They are his. To go from him 


You," contemptuously. 

He looks at her. 

“ Surely we are quits," says he. That is an in- 
sult from you to me ! No ; by a clause in the old 
will the jewels, after your mother, were to go to Sir 
Lucien for ever, for him to leave to whomsoever he 
pleased. So you see the missing stones are less than 
nothing to me. Sir Lucien" — with a lifting of his 
brows — is not enamoured of me." 

They are nothing to me either," says the girl, 
coldly. “ Let us make an end of the matter. It is 
very distasteful to me." 

She moves towards the opening in the wall. 

‘‘ You mean by that" — he follows her — ‘‘that you 
will not accept Sir Lucien’s invitation." He stops, 
looking at her, trying to read her face, his own very 
pale. “ Is this to be the end ?" 

She gives a little curt glance, half, only half, turn- 
ing her head. 

“You do not understand me. If I ever hesitated 
about accepting it, you may be sure all such hesita- 
tion is now at an end," says she, smiling at him ; 


A LONELY MAID. 


91 


but, oh ! what a cold, repellent smile. I shall go 
to Carrig whenever your sister chooses to ask me. I 
am not one bit ashamed of your finding those rings 
upon my fingers. “ I” — with her small head thrown 
backwards and the brilliant light of battle in her dark 
blue eyes — ‘‘ I defy you all !** 

“ Why should you speak to me like that says 
the young man, a little pale, but with a firm expres- 
sion round his lips. ‘‘ Is it fair ? Defy Sir Lucien, 
if you will, but why look upon me as an enemy? 
Would you have had me act differently? Would 
you have had me — knowing those rings were not 
really yours — keep silence? Wouldn’t you have 

hated me for so doing, when you knew ” 

She has turned away from him so that he cannot 
see her face, but now she puts up a little hand as if 
imploring him not to go on. 

Yes, I knew it,” says he. He takes the hand in 
his and holds it firmly. “ I knew you well enough, 
though our friendship has been so short a one, to 

understand you there at least. To ” 

‘‘Yes, yes.” She stops him. “I would not have 
anything undone. I am glad you saw them.” She 
gives a little hurried glance at the rings. “ What 
are you going to do with them ?” asks she, faintly. 
There is a shrinking from them in her sad eyes, and 
yet a longing — a regret for them, too, that is not to 
be disguised. She had loved them, delighted in 
them. They had been her dearest possession, and 
now he has stepped in and has spoiled her joy in them. 

“ They are yours as much as mine,” says he. 
“ What will you do with them ?” 


92 


A LONELY MAID. 


Oh, no, not mine. It is not that — only ” She 

covers her eyes with her hands. ‘‘ Don't tell kirn ! " 
A last faint sob escapes her. “ Don’t tell Sir 
Lucien !” 

A perfect rage of misery sweeps over him. 

I feel the greatest brute alive,” says he. Do 
you know I would rather die than make you so 

unhappy, and yet Tell him ! How could you 

suggest such a thing ? Keep them until the others 
are discovered, and then ” 

‘‘Oh, no. I shall never touch them again. I 
could not. Could not you ?” She looks at him 
anxiously. 

“ No. But suppose — suppose we hide them some- 
where here.” It occurs to him that burying their 
little secret in the old Mill will be a bond between 
them. “ Down in that old cellar we looked into the 
other day. They could lie there very comfortably 
until — if ever — the others are found.” 

“ Very well.” She leads the way down the broken 
staircase to the hole in the upper flooring, where a 
mouldy old ladder leads to the cellar beneath. 

As Adare puts his foot on the ladder, he notices 
one of the arrows that had attracted his attention be- 
fore, cut deep into the upper step. “ Here is another 
of those queer marks,” says he. “ And all pointing 
downwards. I wonder what it means ?” 

“ Some direction to the mill men, no doubt.” 

“ It is very dark. Are you afraid to come ?” 

“ No.” She descends quickly after him, reaching 
presently a vaulted chamber, dank and dark, and 
filled with a strong smell of must and earth. It is 


A LONELY MAID, 


93 


lighted, if lighting it can be called, by a thin ray of 
sunshine that creeps in through a small grated open- 
ing in a side wall. 

Looking round for a likely spot in which to bury 
them, Adare’s eyes suddenly rest on a mark in the 
wall close to him. An arrow again, and again point- 
ing downwards. 

‘‘ How curious,'* says he. “ Shall we bury them 
here ? This old arrow may help us to remember 
them." 

I don’t want to remember them," says Amber, 
slowly. And to dig so near a wall " 

Oh ! Amber, if you had only known. 

“ True, it would be harder, no doubt, and we have 
neither spade nor pick. Well" — moving a little 
farther from the wall — “ here will do, and the arrow 
after all, can be a guide even at this distance." 

With a bit of iron lying on the earthen floor, Adare 
digs a little hole in one of the corners close to the 
grated opening, and there, in his handkerchief, buries 
the rings. If only he had dug a little farther to the 
right ! 

“ Now they belong to nobody," says he, with quite 
extraordinary pleading. In his heart he knows they 
belong to Sir Lucien, but sometimes it is impossible 
to be too honest. And that old miser can wait for 
these until he gets the rest. “ Come up out of this 
dismal place." 

Outside they part, but when they have gone a step 
or two, he stops and comes to her again. 

It is nothing," says he, uncertainly, ‘‘ only, a little 
while ago I said our acquaintance was but a short 


94 


A LONELY MAID, 


one. I want to take that back. I want to tell you 
that I feel as if I had known you for ever, and’' — 
slowly — and only you !” 

Tears rise in her eyes. She gives him her hand 
silently. Raising his hat, he stoops and presses his 
lips to it. Their eyes meet. She is seeing him 
through a misty veil — he is seeing her as he has 
never seen woman before ! Oh ! the dear, sad, sweet 
little face ! 

He would have held her, but she shakes her head, 
and without a word goes swiftly from him. Her 
steps have turned towards her home, that bleak 
melancholy old house on the top of the hill. And 
without so much as one backward glance, she dis- 
appears from his view. 

‘‘ She might have looked, even once^' says he, 
disappointedly, when the last turn of the last corner 
(there are many of them, which of course adds to 
her cruelty in his eyes) has been passed by the all 
too swift feet of his beloved. It wouldn’t have 
been so much !” 

But how could he know that the tears were running 
so fast down her cheeks that she dare not turn, that 
she does not dare even to raise her handkerchief to 
stay them, lest he read the action rightly and come 
back to her. 

So he turns away and takes his road sadly home- 
wards, not forgetting, however to call at the cabin 
that she had pointed out to him where her poor little 
friend had been disappointed at her non-coming and 
at the loss of his bread and butter too. A sovereign 
laid in his little bare hands squares matters some- 


A LONELY MAID, 


95 


what, and with the poor mother's blessings on his 
head still ringing in his ears (she had been trans- 
ported with joy, and the little lad went with his 
small stomach well filled for many a day afterwards) 
he reaches Carrig Castle in time to send a telegram 
to Streeter. 


CHAPTER XI. 


‘‘ The warp holds fast across ; and every thread 
That makes the woof up, has dry specks of red. 
Always the shuttle cleaves clean through, and he 
Weaves with the hair of many a ruined head.** 


If Adare had not seen those sad tears running 
down her cheeks, someone else did. A tall, dark 
man coming out from the shadows of the few trees 
that surround the Mill House quickly follows her 
and now is at her side. 

‘‘ So that is all your new-found relation can do for 
you,’' say^s Brian Deane, ‘^to make you cry your 
eyes out. What have ever any of your mother’s 
people done for you but that? Even your lady 
mother” — with a scornful emphasis on the adjective. 

Don’t speak to me now, Brian. I want to be 
alone.” Her tone is heart-broken, and to this man, 
who in his own wild, rough way loves her as well as 
even Adare does (and that is saying a great deal), 
this gentle answer from Amber, when he has been 
expecting one of the usual shutting-up” order, adds 
fuel to the fire of the passion that has been con- 
suming him ever since he first met her ; now it drives 
him to open expression of it. 

‘‘ Damn him !” cries he, fiercely. '' If it is his fault 
96 


A LONELY MAID, 


97 


that you are crying now — if he has given you one 
sore thought, Fll choke the life out of him.” 

” If you are talking of ” begins Amber. 

I am talking of that fine toff, Hilary Adare.” 

If you are really talking of Captain Adare, he 
has had nothing to do with my crying,” says she, 
slowly, as if thinking, as if making very sure. ‘‘ No, 
it is life that troubles me. I’m tired of it already, 
Brian, and that’s the fact. There’s too much against 
me, too little for me. I can’t find a balance any- 
where. You see” — smiling dismally — “ I don’t ask 
for much — not for an overweight on my side — only 
for a balance. But there are so many things against 
me. 

” A strong thing for you is better than a few weak 
things against you,” says he, gruffly. Then, after a 
pause, Vm for you !” He has plainly great faith in 
his own powers. 

‘‘Yes, I know” — indifferently — I know. You 
are always very kind.” 

“ Kind ! It isn’t that,” says he, swinging round to 
her. ‘‘ It is you who might be kind, for the matter 
of that. And I tell you what” — his face whitening, 
his mouth twitching — I’d be content with your 

kindness. I would, by . As for me, I” — he stops 

as if suffocating, and then bursts out — ” I don’t care 
a devil damn ; I’ll tell you the truth, now, straight 
here. I worship the very ground you walk on. I’d 
sell my soul for you — I ” 

‘‘ Stand there !” Her voice rings out clear and 
calm. 

He had made a movement towards her, but now 

E g 9 


98 


A LONELY MAW. 


checks himself as if paralysed. Her exquisite head is 
thrown back, her eyes are fixed on his. There is no 
thought of fear in all her slight and beautiful body. 

What do you mean,” says she, “ by speaking to 
me like this ? It is absurd. I do not wish for your 
love.” 

“ Is that” — he frowns heavily — because you de- 
sire his ?” 

‘‘ His ? Captain Adare's, you mean ?” She speaks 
clearly still, though her lips whiten a little. He is 
nothing to me.” 

‘‘You” — eagerly — ‘‘are still free then? If — if I” 
— looking round him and sinking his voice — “ if I 
could clear your father’s memory” — Amber, who has 
turned away, now suddenly looks back at him, her 
eyes lighting — “if I could say where those lost 
jewels are ” 

“ Brian !” — she has laid her hand upon his arm — 
“You know. You know. Oh! say — saj/ that you 
know.” 

“ I can know, if you will make it worth my while,” 
says he, with a cold sort of laugh. “ You know what 
I mean. See here, my girl, if I tell you where the 
stones are — if I clear your father’s memory — for that 
I know is what you are up to — will you marry me ? 
Come now. A bargain — is it a bargain ?” 

There is a dead pause. To clear her father’s 
memory. 

The father who had been so dear to her in her 
early life — the father who had been kind to her to 
the end, whose memory now is the only thing on 
earth she has to reverence, to love 


A LONELY MAID. 


99 


She hesitates here. Her breath grows quicker. Is 
that memory to her father all that indeed now she 
has to love ? This sudden inrushing of a new thought 
upon the old one checks her, and finally steadies her. 
The father who had loved her in the old days, before 
time and grief had deadened his senses, would wish 
her above everything to be happy, to be free ! 

She turns to Deane. 

‘‘ No. Not even for that.” As she says it she 
turns away from him, and steps out quickly towards 
the house. A slight turn brings her within view of 
it — and safety ; the few servants there are devoted to 
her. 

This is that hound’s doing,” says he, in a low but 
vehement tone. “ Say what you will, you love him ; 
but you’ll never marry him ; mark my words, girl ; 
never! I’ll back myself and that old devil. Sir 
Lucien, to prevent it. And” — calling after her — 
‘‘ you need not be in such a violent hurry. I am 
going indoors too.” 

^ ^ 4 ^ 

Straight to his sister’s sitting-room he goes. Esther 
Deane, small, fragile, a bare fragment of a woman, 
with pale blue eyes sunk in a face almost emaci- 
ated, looks up from the eternal patchwork she is 
always employed on, to greet him. His entrance has 
changed the entire expression of her face. Through 
the sullen dulness that usually characterises it, a 
gleam of honest joy now shows. On this brother, 
the sole relation she has ever known (her father and 
mother having died when she was fifteen, and Brian 
a mere infant), she has lavished all the small stock 


lOO 


A LONELY MAID. 


of love that even the coldest creature must contain in 
his or her breast. 

“What is it?“ asks she, looking up at him over 
her shoulder. The love she bears him, the love of a 
mother for a son — for indeed the difference in their 
ages gives her a sort of motherly care for him — does 
not allow her to break through the terrible calm that 
has been hers all her life. 

“ I want to talk to you,” says he, “ about — those 
jewels.” 

"'What!'' She starts to her feet. “You have 
found them ?” 

“ Not exactly,” slowly. “ I have made a discovery, 
however.” 

“ My letter to you enclosing those papers were of 
use then ?” 

“ Yes.” He draws in a little. “ At least ” 

“ I knew it,” interrupts she, triumphantly. “ When 
I went over the old man’s papers and saw those 
strange scribblings with the arrows on them and 
then noted his words, I felt there was something in 
them — something thatj^^^ ought to know.” 

“ It was very sharp of you,” says he. It has oc- 
curred to him that it will be well to humour her, 
though as a fact she is no longer of any use to him 
except in one particular; and that — yes, the girl — 
the girl he will have ; though jewels and sister (and 
to say the truth he is fond of the latter in his queer 
way) and all the world were to be lost, he would 
still fight for the girl. 

“ I have made a discovery — of a sort. I think I 
know where that old idiot hid the stones.” 


A LONELY MAID, 


loi 


But are you sure ? How can you be sure ? The 
old man was not himself after his wife’s death. He 
spoke strangely at times. Only to the girl — to 
Amber — ^was he the same as he used to be. I noticed 
how he failed hour by hour after the death of that 
cruel wife of his. But she — Amber — never saw it, I 
think. He had something on his mind certainly. 
And I always connected it with his wife — and the 
jewels. That was why on her death and their dis- 
appearance I first wrote to you. But don’t make 
too sure. He was not quite sane, I think. Where 
do you think they are ?” 

“ You would make a splendid detective,’^ says he, 
avoiding her last question. I fancy — fancy only^ 
mind — that I am on the verge of finding what will 

make us all He stops abruptly. ‘‘ Look here, 

Esther, the give and take system is the honestest 
all round — the one I hang on to. Come ! I’ll make 
a proposition to you. If you will help me to marry 
Amber, I’ll take you and Amber and” — with a short 
laugh — the jewels to Australia. Come ! What of 
that, eh ? It is a bargain !” 

Esther is silent. She turns again to her writing- 
table and thus conceals the terrible change that has 
come over her face. He loves that girl ! Amber ! 
He loves Amber ! All her — Esther’s — love for him, 
all her care, all the eager desire for his welfare that 
has led her (through these jewels) almost to the 
verge of crime, is now to be cast aside, forgotten, 
because of that girl’s eyes, or hair, or smile. 

She could have cried aloud, but still the repres- 
sion of years is on her, and she sits silent, quite 


102 


A LONELY MAID. 


Straight, with no weak bending of the back, appar- 
ently looking over the intolerable rows of figures 
lying on the desk before her. 

To the sister who adores him it seems impossible 
that any woman could refuse him. He will marry 
her, and they will go to Australia, and (she believes 
in him so far, and justly, too) they will take her with 
them. But there as here, from this day forth, she 
will have to play second fiddle — to consent to sit in 
the background, to give up all claim to the man to 
whom as a boy she had been almost a mother. The 
shock, so sudden, so bitter, almost undoes her, in 
spite of the stoical calm that belongs to her. 

‘‘ Well,'' says he, gruffly, having waited quite a 
long time for her answer, ‘‘ can’t you speak ? Didn’t 
you hear? It’s an offer, by Jove, that you ought to 
snap at !” 

‘‘ Well, so I do,” says she at last, with a strange 
laugh. Laughter is so unusual a thing with her at 
any time that he stares at her for a moment, then 
lounges out of the room. 


CHAPTER XII. 


There’s a time to be jolly, a time to repent, 

A season for folly, a season for Lent.” 

‘‘ Dear Owen, do put down that whip. Tm sure 
you^ll never stop until the ponies run away,’’ says 
May, in a little agony of fright. In a rash moment 
she had consented to Mr. McGrath’s proposal to 
drive her over to the mill house behind the sprightly 
little ponies “Sam” and “Sabina,” there to give 
Amber Sir Lucien’s invitation — gruffly worded by 
him — very politely to be worded by May — to spend 
a week at Carrig Castle. “ Do stop teasing those 
poor little things and let us talk about Amber.” 

“ They love it,” says Owen, genially. 

“ Well, I don’t.” 

“ Don’t like teasing ? What a funny girl.” 

“ I was talking about your whip,” says she, with 
dignity. 

“ Well, what’s the matter with it ?” regarding it 
critically. “Very nice whip I call it. I suppose 
you think the handle ought to be set with sapphires? 
I’ll see about that when we get home.” 

“ If we ever do,” scornfully. 

“ We shall — with the help of this despised whip. 
Do you know its name ?” 

103 


104 


A LONELY MAID, 


“ Oh, don’t be more stupid than you can help, 
Owen.” This with distinct impatience. She wants 
to talk of the coming interview with Amber, and 
Amber’s supposed guardian. Miss Deane. ‘‘ Whips 
don’t have names.” 

“ Mine do,” mildly but firmly. ‘‘ This one is called 
Money. I christened it myself yesterday, after wait- 
ing a considerable time for the bishop, who didn’t 
turn up. Good name, eh ?” 

I can’t say I see it,” stiffly. 

‘‘ No ?” He smiles admiringly at her. That’s 
because you are so clever. Clever people never see 
anything. Ever heard of the old saying, ‘ Money 
makes the mare go?’ Now just watch Sabina.” 
Here he gives the off pony a delicate flip between 
the ears, whereon she nearly kicks over the traces. 
‘‘ See ?” — triumphantly — “ my ‘ Money’ has made this 
‘mare’ go.” 

Sabina indeed is now tearing along the road, with 
Sam beside her, at quite a runaway pace. 

“ Oh, stop them ! Oh, what a horrid boy you 
are,” cries May, nearly in tears. 

“ It’s all right. There’s a hill before us ; sit tight!” 
cries McGrath, who is now in his element and is 
singing at the top of his wonderful lungs, to the tune 
of “ Honey, my Honey,” “ Oh, Money ! my Money ! 
If the reins will only last I” — which is really a very 
disgraceful travesty on such a delightful and popular 
song. 

They do last fortunately until the stiff ascent be- 
fore them brings Sam and Sabina to their senses 
once more. 


A LONELY MAID. 


lOS 

shall certainly never go driving with you 
again/' says May, indignantly. ‘‘And if you think 
you are clever you make a huge mistake. I never 
heard such a stupid name for anything since I was 
born. Really, Owen, I have often thought that there 
is something wrong with your brain." 

“ You may be sure of it," agrees he, cheerfully, 
“ or else I should not be going to-day with you on 
this wild-goose chase." 

“Amber" — disdainfully — will be flattered when 
she hears you called her a goose !" 

“ A wild one !" carefully. “ Don't forget the wild. 
Girls love to be called wild." 

“ Girls — like " Words fail her. 

“Yes," nodding knowingly, “it makes them feel 
like boys !" 

“ All this only shows," says she, with a dignified 
tilt of her little chin, “ how very little you know 
about them." 

“ Boys ?" 

“ Girls !" 

“ Well, come now," says Mr. McGrath, putting on 
a magisterial air. “ On your honour, would you 
rather be called a wild goose or a tame one?" 

“ I refuse" — haughtily — “ to be called a goose at 
all !" 

“ Oh, there you are," says he, aggrieved. “ Women 
never can argue. Is that the turn to the mill? I 
say. May, I wonder if they’ll let her come ?" 

“ Amber ? I don't know." All unpleasantnesses 
are at once sunk in the delight of this absorbing 
thought. “ Do you know, Owen, I feel a little, just 


io6 


A LONELY MAID, 


a little nervous, don^t you know ; Miss Deane looks 
— eh ? What do you think ? — ^just a 

Regular Tartar,'' supplements he. 

‘‘ Oh !" in rather a faint voice. “ Not so bad as 
that perhaps; but still — you'll back me up, Owen, 
won't you ? you’ll — tackle her, that's your word — 
you will tackle her if she is — is — rude or anything ?” 

I’ll do my best ; but” — gloomily — ‘‘ the way is 
dark before me. I have heard,” with a touch of re- 
covering courage, ‘‘ that if you sit on their heads 
they don’t kick. Shall I sit on her head ?” 

“ Of course, if you are going to make a jest of 
it ” 

‘‘ What do you take me for — to jest at a moment 
like this ? However, before I put my name to it, 
one word ! Does Miss Amber resemble auntie ?” 

“ Miss Deane is not her aunt — only a cousin. I 
wish you would try and get that into your head be- 
fore we arrive. Amber like Miss Deane ! Why 
Amber is lovely ! perfectly lovely ! She is the pret- 
tiest girl I ever saw in my life.” 

‘‘ And yet,” says Mr. McGrath, thoughtfully, I 
suppose — I don’t know, of course — but I suppose 
you have a looking-glass ?” 

At this she laughs. 

If she is so lovely, we had better be getting on,” 
says Owen ; and now commences a series of flicks at 
the heads of both Sam and Sabina, calculated to 
make any well brought up ponies furious in a minute 
or so. 

‘‘I wish you wouldn't, Owen! You only irritate 
them. What on earth” — marking afresh the delicate 


A LONELY MAID, 


107 


little dabs he is making at one of the ponies' ears 
with the lash of the whip — are you doing?" She 
speaks angrily, the pony's gymnastics under his 
treatment having got on her nerves. 

‘‘Fly-fishing!" says Mr. McGrath, equably; “see 
'em on Sam’s ear ?" 

“ There is not a fly anywhere." And indeed there 
isn't ; October disagrees with flies. 

“ Don't like that version," says Owen, who is a 
born tease. “ I’ll give you another. I’m full of re- 
source. But I’m full of principle, too. I stick to my 
first word. Fishing I am! If you object to the 
winged insect. I’ll give you another show. I’m" — 
suiting the action to the word and bringing down 
the barest point of the lash on one of the ponies' ears 
— “trying to get a rise out of Sam !" 

And a “ rise" he gets. Once again the ponies 
start off wildly, and once again a merciful hill — 
Ireland is full of mercies of that sort — stops them. 

“This is the last time you see me driving with 
you," cries May, when the pace, having slackened a 
little, permits her to speak. “ No more fly-fishing 
for me^ thank you ! I suppose that is a joke, too ?" 

“ See it ?" says he, delightedly. “ 'Pon my word, 
you'd guess anything ! And why won't you come 
driving with me again ? I'm about the best man at 
that sort of thing you're likely to find. Twice to-day 
we have been run away with by infuriated animals 
and not one broken bone between us." 

“ No thanks to you',' indignantly. “ Next time I 
shall ask Gilbert to drive me." 

“ Grey 1 Doesn't know a horse from a cow." He 


io8 


A LONELY MAID, 


turns aside as he says this to hide the grin he can't 
suppress. He is quite aware of the little tendresse 
that exists between May and Gilbert. 

Really, Owen" — hotly — “ it is absurd your talk- 
ing like that. Why yesterday, when you and Hilary 
and Gilbert and Mr. Everard had that little steeple- 
chase over the fields below, Gilbert was the first in. 
Gilbert won 

Didn’t you know," says he, dropping his voice 
to a very confidential one, and leaning towards her, 
‘‘ he was strapped on ?" 

After this, conversation came to an abrupt and 
painful end. 

The interview with Miss Deane is gone through 
without so great a hitch as May had anticipated. 
Miss Deane, indeed, had shown herself not only 
compliant, but actually anxious that Amber should 
go and spend a week with her uncle. 

Esther had heard of Hilary Adare, of his meeting 
with Amber, both at the mill one day, and at 
Madam’s later on, and had drawn certain conclu- 
sions. If — her heart beat fast as she dwelt on it — if 
Captain Adare should fall in love with the girl, and 
she with him — and it might be, for after all Brian 
had not let the girl see how much he loves her — 
well, there would lie a solution of the trouble that is 
worrying her. Amber once married or even entangled 
with Adare (her heart is bad to its core), Brian will 
be hers again to influence — to hold — to live for ! 
And she has so little to live for, so little to make life 
sweet ! 


A LONELY MAID, 


109 


That Brian can greatly care ! She has gone into 
this and has come out of it with the settled belief 
that he is incapable of caring much for anything — 
except himself. In this she wrongs him. 

So Amber, who had met May’s very charming 
advances with a shy pleasure and Mr. McGrath’s all 
too genial advances with a touch of reserve, promises 
to go over to Carrig on Tuesday next — to-day is 
Friday — and spend a week with her cousins. 

“ We are all of us your cousins, you know. All 
of us,” says May, pressing her hand at parting. 

‘‘Yes, all of us,” repeats Mr. McGrath, with em- 
phasis. 

“And come early, come in time for tea,” says 
May, glancing up at Amber from the pony-carriage 
in which she is now again seated. “ Or perhaps — 
luncheon.” 

“ Or breakfast,” suggests Mr. McGrath, most hos- 
pitably. May gives him a withering glance. 

“ I shall come as soon as I can,” says Amber, 
softly. 

“ We shall be looking out for you, nods May, 
brightly. “ Good-bye ! Good-bye, Miss Deane !” to 
Esther, who is also standing up above on the hall 
door steps. “ So good of you to spare Amber for a 
few days.” 

The ponies dash away down the grass-grown old 
avenue, as if wild with a desire to be gone; and, as 
they disappear, Esther Deane touches Amber’s arm. 

“ Not a word of this to — to anyone,” says she. 

Amber looks at her anxiously. 

“You mean ?” 


1 


10 


no 


A LONELY MAID. 


** I mean that if you say a word to anyone, you 
won't be able to go." 

I am my own mistress," says the girl, proudly. 
Yet for all that she takes the lesson to heart, and it 
is not until she is well on her way to Carrig Castle 
on the following Tuesday that Brian learns of the in- 
vitation, the visit of May, and the going of Amber ! 

★ ^ sK * ♦ 

On that afternoon, after an unsuccessful search for 
Amber round the grounds and in the old mill, he 
enters his sister’s private room. 

‘‘ Where is Amber ?" asks he, quickly. There is 
no suspicion in his tone. 

Miss Deane rises. The worst is before her now, 
and she faces it steadily. 

She has gone to spend a week with her uncle, 
Sir Lucien Adare !" 

‘‘What?" 

The man’s face grows ashy as he looks back at 
her. Nay, it grows dangerous. 

“ I thought," says she, coldly, quietly, though her 
heart is beginning to die within her, “ that it would 
be well for her to know something of her mother’s 
people.” 

“ You thought that for ker. What did you think 
for me? You" — he comes closer to her — “you 
heard what I said the other day. You knew what I 
meant. I did not even hide from you that I loved 
her, and yet — — " 

He stops for a moment. 

“When did she get this invitation ?’’ 

“ Last Friday !’’ She answers him clearly, and 


A LONELY MAW. 


Ill 


still her eyes are fixed on his. And still she stands 
straight and firm before him without a shadow of 
outward fear. 

‘‘ And this is Tuesday.^’ His face grows terrible 
now. ‘‘ For four days you kept this secret. For 
four days you knew she was going to stay in the 
house with Hilary Adare, the man who you think 

loves her — and yet ” He makes a sudden, swift, 

backward movement of his arm. 

“ Take that, you damned traitor,'' says he, dashino* 
her in his blind fury to the ground. 

if. if. if. Hf. iti 

The room is almost dark when she comes to her- 
self again. Dragging herself to her feet by the aid 
of a chair near her, she stands, tottering a little, try- 
ing to bring back her senses whilst wiping, vaguely, 
the blood from her mouth. 

Then all too suddenly it comes back to her — the 
scene with him, the cowardly blow. 

“ He didn't mean it," breathes she through her 
poor, swollen lips. “ He was always hot-tempered, 
poor boy! He is sorry now, I know. He — did not 
mean it." 

Even in this woman — hard, cruel, unprincipled — 
the touch of the divine dwells ! Love ! And the 
desire to pardon. ‘‘ Forgive them that despitefully 
use you." No. He had not meant it 1 


CHAPTER XIII. 


**0 Love, thou knowest if she were good to see !” 

Amber, following the footman across the great 
stone hall to the drawing-room, is conscious that her 
heart is sinking within her. Why had she not told 
May the exact hour she would drive over? then she 
would have been met by someone, by — at all events 
by May. 

As she approaches the door strange sounds — 
strange and not altogether lovely — salute her ears. 
Indeed, the entire house party at Carrig is engaged 
at this moment in singing plantation songs to the 
terrible accompaniment of Mr. McGrath's banjo. 
He had nobly volunteered to guide them through 
their mazes, and with such bonhomie that no one had 
the heart to bundle him out of the window. Be- 
sides, they knew they could shout him down, for 
they are many, and he and his banjo are but two. 
They are all singing at the top of their lungs. Not 
a single member of the family but has a voice of 
some sort or other, not a single member but is now 
using it with all his might. The result is amazing. 

“ Oh ! for the ring- tailed coon,” 

rings through the room as Amber enters it. But so 
delighted are they all with their several perform- 

II2 


A LONELY MAID, 


II3 


ances that for a full minute no one sees her or hears 
her. It is by a mere chance, indeed, that at the end 
of that time, Dolly Clarence, giving her head a shake 
with the view to bringing out an extra fine note, 
happens so to turn herself that her eyes light on the 
new arrival. 

Oh ! my goodness !” exclaims she, but it would 
have taken the report of a cannon to be heard above 
the tumult caused by the ring-tailed coon, and so 
she proceeds to give Everard’s arm a strong, agitated 
pull. 

She's come/" shrieks she, valiantly, and at this 
Everard turns sharply round, the rest follow suit, 
and an awful silence falls upon the uproar of a mo- 
ment ago — a silence only broken by the persistent 
‘"turn — turn — turn’" of Mr. McGrath’s banjo. 

May has run quickly up to Amber, followed in a 
hurried fashion by Hilary. Good heavens ! what did 
May mean by saying that as she hadn’t come to 
luncheon, she would probably not be here till five or 
so. It is almost impossible for the first moment to 
go by without a little awkwardness, the situation 
being beyond May and her brother, who feel them- 
selves the greatest delinquents. They really should 
have been in readiness to receive her ! As for Hilary, 
holding Amber’s hand and looking into her charm- 
ing face, he feels so miserably ashamed of himself 
that the words of welcome he would have uttered 
desert him altogether. Oh ! confound that fellow 
and his eternal banjo ! 

Mrs. Clarence has given way to mirth. 

‘‘ What an unfortunate prelude to our acquaint- 
h 10* 


A LONELY MAID. 


I14 

ance/’ she is whispering to Everard. She^l think 
it was got up in her honour. A little impromptu 
concert ! But to call her a ring-tailed coon 

Everard is hardly listening ; his eyes are fixed on 
the girl still standing near the doorway. 

“ It was too bad of us/’ May is murmuring to 
Amber, her embarrassment now wearing off. “ You 
must think us so rude not to — but we hardly knew 
what time to expect you.” 

‘‘ We hoped you would come to luncheon,” says 
Hilary. 

“ Yes, we hoped for you as soon as possible,” says 
May, prettily. She lifts two dainty little hands to 
Amber’s shoulders, and kisses her gently, lightly — a 
butterfly caress — on both cheeks. 

Amber returns the two small embraces a little 
nervously. She flushes and looks shyly round her. 
This coming for the first time to the home of her 
mother is a great ordeal. This home in which she 
has so long been tabooed. 

Suddenly her eyes met Hilary’s. 

“ Come and be introduced to your other cousins,’* 
says he, and involuntarily, in spite of the many eyes 
looking on, he holds out his hand to her again, and 
again she lays hers within it. But now how differ- 
ently. Fear has caught her ; her fingers tighten over 
his in a nervous, frightened, clinging way, and with 
such utter unconsciousness, as goes to his heart’s 
core. 

He responds warmly to the pressure of the little 
fingers and his honest grasp gives strength and sup- 
port to the frightened Amber. Here is a friend who 


A LONELY MAID. 


I15 

can carry her through all her embarrassments ! All 
at once her courage rises, and with it her spirits too. 

Mrs, Clarence has come forward and made friends 
with her in a very charming fashion. It has occurred 
to Mrs. Clarence that she may be useful. Colonel 
Clarence is coming home within six months anyway, 
and to get rid of Everard before that auspicious oc- 
casion seems a good thing in her eyes. She had 
not failed to notice Everard’s intent glance at the 
girl as she came in. Everard is always intently 
glancing at some girl or other, and then — coming 
back to her ; six months is a short time. She had 
better shunt him finally over this new girl/' so as to 
have him off the grounds before the colonel puts in 
his next most undesirable appearance. 

'' We were singing,'' says Dolly, “ as you came in. 
I hope it sounded like that." 

‘'But — go on, Dolly!" says Mr. McGrath, making 
signs to his sister and frowning at her anxiously. 
“ What we really wish to say. Miss O’Connell, is, 

that Go on, Dolly 1" 

“ I really shan’t," says Mrs. Clarence, laughing. 
“ It's sometimes bad enough what you propose to 
say yourself, but what you want me to say is beyond 
me. You must not mind my brother. Amber. May 
I call you Amber? He is not responsible always 
for his actions." 

“ I merely," says Mr. McGrath, with dignity, 
‘'wished to tell Miss O’Connell that you did not 

mean to call her a coo ” 

He is rapidly hustled out of sight. But Amber, 
who has a deep sense of humour, recognizing the 


ii6 


A LONELY MAID. 


meaning of it all, laughs outright, that sweet and 
happy laugh of hers. 

So is the ice broken. 

‘‘ I like that song,’’ says she ; I know it.” 

Oh, do you ?” cries May. We must have it 
again some other time. And after all it was in a 
sense appropriate (the singing of it, I mean, as you 
came in), because we were all longing to see you, and 
the words — you know the ridiculous thing.” 

“ What is a coon ?” asks Mrs. Clarence, with appar- 
ent earnest inquiry. As a fact, she does not know. 

‘‘ Yes, what?” asks May, who doesn’t know either, 
but hopes it may prove a tropical bird of many 
feathers. 

There is a little pause, then 

A monkey, I think'd says Amber. She lifts her 
eyes, such eyes, and now so shyly mirthful that all 
at once the room is filled with laughter, and she feels 
instinctively that she has made every man in it her 
friend for life. And even the women, too, which is 
far more surprising. 

Two men, however, are already more than mere 
friends. Hilary we know of. But Everard ? It is 
noticeable — to Mrs. Clarence certainly later on — that 
from the time Amber entered until she left the room 
to change her gown for dinner he had never ad- 
dressed her one word. That — according to Mrs. 
Clarence, who knows him if anyone does — speaks 
volumes. He had been contented to merely sit and 
look at her. 

Even as they laugh the door again opens to admit 
someone. Someone who puts an end to the laugh 


A LONELY MAID. 


I17 

instanter. In a word, Sir Lucien. It is so unlike 
him to approach his guests at this hour, at indeed 
any hour when he can decently elude them, that 
even Mrs. Clarence, who is equal to most things, 
stares as if a first-class, highly up-to-date spook 
stands before her. 

He advances up the room to where Amber is sit- 
ting near May, careless of the queer little silence that 
has followed on his entrance. Everard and Hilary 
make a pretence at conversation, making vigorous 
efforts to get Mr. McGrath to join them in this at- 
tempt, but Owen scorns at keeping up appearances ; 
he even frowns and winks. He waves them off, as 
it were. He is indeed consumed with a fearful joy 
— an undisguised curiosity as to what the entrance 
of his host at this moment may mean. 

The tall, grim old man, lean and cruel- faced, but 
singularly handsome, has now reached Amber's side. 
He had taken no notice whatever of anyone else in 
the room as he walked up — and, standing motion- 
less, looks down at the girl. 

“You are my niece" — he pauses. The pause is 
insulting — “ I am told." 

Hilary makes a movement as if to go to her, but 
Mrs. Clarence lays her hand upon his arm. She is 
very clever. 

Amber rises slowly to her feet. Her face is always 
so clearly white that the little additional pallor that 
now grows upon it is not sufficient to raise joy in 
the breast of the one who is bent on embarrassing 
her. 

“ I really don’t know," says Amber, in slow, even 


ii8 


A LONELY MAID, 


tones (where is her nervousness of a moment ago ?). 
“ You are my uncle — I am toldT — the pause is 
identical — ‘‘ but how can I be sure ?’' 

A dead silence, whilst these two, the young girl 
and the old man, face each other resolutely. The 
affected conversation between Everard and Hilary 
has long ago fallen to the ground. May is looking 
a little faint. Mr. McGrath by his sister’s efforts 
alone is prevented from giving a loud and tremen- 
dous clap for Amber. By George, she scored !” he 
said in the smoking-room afterwards. “ She regu- 
larly diddled that old miscreant !” 

A slow red flush has risen to Sir Lucien’s cheeks. 
His frown deepens, but his eyes waver. They fall. 

“True, we have not met until now,” This is a 
distinct come down. “ I hear, however, that though 
you have not met me, you have met some of my 
guests.” 

“She has met some of her cousins/' says Hilary, 
walking straight up to her. 

“Ah, so!” Sir Lucien gives him a keen glance. 
“Yes, of course, her cousins. I have also” — turn- 
ing deliberately to her — “ had the pleasure” — with a 
sneer — “ of meeting some of four cousins. Mr. 
Deane, for example. I suppose I am too new a 
friend” — with a curl of the lip — “ to congratulate 
you ?” 

Amber raises her large dark eyes to his. Her 
face has grown rigid — haughty. At this moment 
the strange, the almost extraordinary likeness be- 
tween them is so plain that it strikes everyone in 
the room. 


A LONELY MAW. 


II9 

“ I do not understand you !’' 

‘‘ No? Have I been indiscreet ? Mr. Deane, how- 
ever, informed me to-day that he is desirous of mar- 
riage with you. That in effect the marriage is ar- 
ranged. I was glad to hear of it. A most excellent 
arrangement in my opinion. He is, I understand, 
very well to do in Australia.’* 

He smiles languidly and glances at Hilary, who 
is gazing at Amber with compressed lips and dilated 
nostrils. A lie ! A lie / Why can’t she speak ? 

“ Brian may be well to do or the reverse, for all I 
know,” says she at last, very quietly, absolutely in- 
differently indeed, it is nothing to me. If he were 
the richest man on earth, I should not marry him ; 
and I certainly am not engaged to him.” 

“ And I really think,” breaks in May, with gentle 
indignation, “that to speak like this to Amber just 
on her arrival ” She looks helplessly at Dolly. 

“ Barbarous !” says Mrs. Clarence, promptly. 

“ I see I have been a little premature,” says Sir 
Lucien, smiling. He is abominable when he smiles. 
“Young ladies do not like having their little senti- 
mental secrets wrested from them before the time. 
Bui I still hope” — shaking his long white hand be- 
fore Amber’s face and taking on quite a jocund air — 
“ that presently — presently — when things are a little 
more forward, you will take me into your confidence.” 

He turns away, picks up the Irish Thnes from the 
table near him, and strolls through the window on 
to the balcony and so to the gardens below. 

“ Don’t mind him,” says May, eagerly, throwing 
her arm round Amber’s neck. “ He’s a — yes, he is^ 


120 


A LONELY MAID, 


Hilary. I don’t care — you are always scolding me 
for saying it — but” — to Amber — he is a pig/’ 

I don’t know what the good old swine have done 
to deserve this,” puts in Mr. McGrath, plaintively. 
“They may wallow in the kindly mire, but they 
never make sarcastic remarks, and when dead they 
are very good to eat. Now our dear uncle, when 
dead (I don’t think myself it will ever come off, 
there is too much enthusiasm about it) — but if he 
should be so considerate as to ” 

“ Oh, stop, Owen ! You know you ought not to 
speak like that, it’s perfectly horrid,” says May. 
“ What I want to tell Amber is that he’s dreadful — 
perfectly dreadful — and that she must only make up 
her mind to him ; we all do.” 

Amber has sunk down into the chair in which 
she was sitting before Sir Lucien came. There is 
some lassitude in her air. 

“ He has frightened you,” says Mrs. Clarence, very 
kindly. Her kindness is extraordinary, as she very 
seldom goes out of her way to help anyone. 

“ Oh, no,” says Amber, lifting her charming chin 
so that they can all see the delightful smile that gives 
extra beauty to a face that hardly needs it, “ I am 
not afraid of him ; I” — very softly — “ am not afraid of 
anyoner Hilary, who is beside her, wonders if she 
means Deane by that very emphatic “ anyone.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“ Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing more than any man in 
all Venice.” 

Dinner goes off very well considering all things, 
chiefly perhaps because of the fact that Sir Lucien 
seems too preoccupied with his thoughts, whatever 
they may be about, to give him leisure to act the 
skeleton at the feast, or to spread broadcast among 
them, as is his charming wont, such flowers of cruel 
satire, such touches of open venom as flow so easily 
from his bitter tongue. 

He had come back fresh from a last interview with 
Deane, to meet Amber in his drawing-room. This 
interview had been momentous, and during it Deane 
had made the strangest proposal. So strange that 
even now Sir Lucien trifles with the courses before 
him rather than partakes of them. 

Up to to-day Deane had defied Sir Lucien, had 
refused to give any information about the missing 
jewels, had indeed strenuously denied all knowledge 
of them, but in so sneering, so insulting a fashion as 
to make Sir Lucien, who has a good deal of brain, 
still believe that he has some information in his pos- 
session that, should he get at it, would enable Sir 
Lucien to lay his hand on them should the fellow 
choose to speak. 

F 


II 


I2I 


122 


A LONELY MAID, 


Up to this the fellow” had been obdurate. 

Sir Lucien had gone far before to-day. He had 
actually offered a bribe to Deane. But the storm of 
rage that followed upon that proposal prevented him 
from ever making another. He had even begun to 
believe in the man’s ignorance, when to-day opened 
his eyes. 

To-day the most marvellous thing had occurred. 
Deane, instead of sneeringly rejecting the idea of ever 
having seen or heard of the missing gems, had con- 
fessed stolidly, openly, thac he could tell where they 
were, if — he had paused there, and struck his foot 
fiercely against the ground — if Sir Lucien made it 
worth his while. 

Then Sir Lucien said something that the other 
had brushed away with a smile. 

Oh ! yes, of course, he. Sir Lucien, might drag 
him to the judgment-seat — might consign him to 
prison and — he laughed loudly — the torture — but he 
should never betray the secret he held unless 

There was a condition. 

The condition was Amber. The girl was held up 
between the two men to be bought and sold. 

Amber once his wife — five minutes after the cere- 
mony — the jewels should lie in Sir Lucien’s hands. 

Sir Lucien had come home intoxicated with this 
hideous bargain. The girl should be sold. What 
was she in comparison with those priceless gems that 
meant a fresh fortune to his house. His brain was 
on fire as he sat down to dinner. To marry the girl 
to Deane ! Why it was a most simple thing ! To 
marry her into her own low set, as he called it. 


A LONELY MAID. 


123 


r 

A whisper, a mere breath of Hilary’s admiration 
for Amber had come to him ; chiefly through Deane, 
who had not, however, spoken freely for many 
reasons — but he has elected to fling all such silly 
suspicions aside. Of course they were the outcome 
of a foolish man’s jealousy. He had directed all his 
attention to Hilary’s demeanour towards her during 
dinner, but beyond that one impulsive step he had 
taken in the drawing-room he saw nothing that 
would point to attachment of any sort. If there had 
been anything, which he doubted, it was a mere 
young man’s fancy, bound to go — a mere midsum- 
mer madness, nothing more — nothing more. And 
the girl shall marry Deane. 

Hilary’s demeanour indeed dispels all fears. He 
grows calmer as he looks at him. He has been 
watching him closely. Hilary is not sitting beside 
Amber, and hardly looks at her. Sir Lucien takes 
special notice of this point. 

And it is true, too, Hilary does not look at 
Amber, nor does she look at him. Yet there is 
something about Adare — a touch of sudden gaiety 
— of unsuspected happiness — a certain buoyancy in 
his whole air that must strike forcibly upon an acute 
observer. 

Sir Lucien, usually too keen, is now, however, so 
wrapped up in his dreams of a lost treasure restored 
that he fails to note these subtle touches of gaiety in 
his nephew. He is content with the certainty that 
Adare is sitting far from the girl and seems very in- 
different to her. 

And no wonder ! he tells himself, with his cynical 


124 


A LONELY MAID. 


old smile, his glance resting for a moment with open 
hatred upon Amber. 

As a fact, poor child (there is no denying it), she 
is very badly gowned. Her frock is old and ill 
fitting. There is not the smallest touch of fashion 
about it. And yet . . . anyone else in the world, 
perhaps, would have looked dowdy in it, but nature 
has come to Amber’s rescue. The gown may be 
badly cut, but the delicate whiteness of the neck 
and arms that show through it, the pose of the 
flower-like head and the dainty shell-pink ears sitting 
so closely to it, the starry brightness of the soft and 
lovely eyes — all conquer with a mighty hand the 
sins of that cruel gown. And there is, too, such a 
bizarrerie about her — such a charming touch of 
naturalness — an air of sweet friendliness towards all 
around her, that the men prostrate themselves in a 
body before her, and even the women cease to feel 
faint as they regard that awful toilette. 

Even Gilbert Gray, who is so far a slave to his 
passion for pretty May as to regard most women save 
her as almost hideous, gives in to Ambers happy 
smile, and goes such dreadful lengths as to say in 
confidence to Mr. McGrath that she was better 
than most of ’em.” 

He is indeed so attentive to her in little ways that 
May grows first surprised, then angry, and finally 
very cold to him — an awful deed that drives him to 
the verge of desperation. Good heavens ! what has 
he done now ? The “ now” is eloquent of the capri- 
ciousness of his heart’s desire. 

‘‘ Done now/** quotes Mr. McGrath, to whom in a 


A LONELY MAID. 


125 

weak moment he has made this appeal, as if you 
didn't know." 

‘‘ How can I know ? What can I know ? Take 
that stupid grin off your face, for goodness' sake." 

Oh, go 'way !" says Owen, who is in his element, 
giving him a dig in the ribs that Mr. Grey resents 
openly and furiously. “ Go 'way for a larky chap ! 
I saw you !" 

‘‘ Saw what ? confound you !" 

‘‘ Oh, come now. Grey — what’s the good of pre- 
tending ? If you will flirt outrageously, you know, 
with one charming girl under another charming 
girl’s nose, well, you’ve got to look out for fireworks, 
you know. Eh ?" 

‘‘ I believe it’s all your doing," says Grey, indig- 
nantly. Did you tell her what I said to you about 
Miss O’Connell ?" 

‘'What do you take me for?" asks Owen, sadly. 
“ Grey, my real character is still an unknown land to 
you. You ought to explore it. Do you think that 
for one moment I would be guilty of laying bare to 
May the sacred secret you committed to my care ?" 

“ Sacred secret !’’ Grey stares at him as if hardly 
believing his ears. I said Miss O’Connell wasn’t 
half bad, or something like that." 

“ I hope it wasn't something like that," says Mr. 
McGrath, very seriously. “If it was — half bad / — 
when Miss O’Connell hears that, though of course I 
hope she won't — however, nothing is certain, and as 
you persist in saying May heard what you said 
to me just now — which proves that walls have 
ears " 


II* 


126 


A LONELY MAID, 


Oh, rot !’* says Mr. Grey, breaking rudely in 
upon his eloquence. 

I don’t know. I’m not so sure. Anyway, when 
Miss O’Connell does hear that you called her only 
half hdid, there will be a row, don’t you think ? And 
a row with two women. Grey ! As a rule, a quarrel 
with one is quite two much for me. But” — regret- 
fully — I’m only a little one !” 

You’re the biggest ass I know,” says Grey. He 
turns on his heel, leaving Mr. McGrath a prey to 
many merry thoughts. 

jK * SK 3|c ♦ ★ 3K 

Upstairs now, in Dolly’s bedroom, another small 
controversy is raging. May, clad in a pale pink 
dressing-gown trimmed elaborately with falling lace, 
had come a quarter of an hour ago into Mrs. Clar- 
ence’s room. It had taken her that fifteen minutes 
to arrive at what she had come to say. 

“ What do you think of her ?” asks she at last, 
desperately at heart, but very quietly outwardly. 

‘‘ ‘ Half sly, half shy,’ ” quotes Mrs. Clarence, who 
is trying how her hair would look if she put it up a 
little farther back upon her head. She has dis- 
missed her maid, who had left it in a long plait, and 
who would have been very much surprised to see it 
as it is now. Look here. May, how d’ye think this 
would suit me ?” 

‘‘Not a bit,” says May. “Your forehead is too 
high. But, Dolly, she isn’t sly^ I think — I hope.” 

“ You’re right, my forehead is too high,” says Mrs. 
Clarence, still gazing into the looking-glass. “A 
high forehead shows genius, they say, but it’s beastly 


A LONELY MAID, 


127 


unbecoming. What are you saying about Amber? 
Sly ? Did you say sly ?’’ 

It was you who said it ; but she isn’t, is she, 
Dolly ?” May is almost tearful. ‘‘ She isn’t an un- 
derhand sort of person. Dolly, don’t say she is 
that.” 

“ I shan’t, indeed. Look here. May. She’s a girl 
after my own heart. The way she tackled that old 
fiend this evening — you remember ? — has made me 
her slave for ever. I should have said ‘ brave,’ not 
‘ sly,’ but you know, May darling, you never see a 
quotation. She is a ‘ splendid cousin’ — see that quo- 
tation ? — no, of course. Well, you can see anyway 
that I admire her.” 

‘‘ So does everyone else, it seems,” says May, dis- 
consolately, tapping her small foot upon the floor. 

Mrs. Clarence laughs. 

“ Even the devoted Gilbert !” She says this with 
an audacious grimace. “And so you are jealous 
then ? Pm not !” 

“Jealous!” with an angry flush. ‘^Nonsense! 
What have I to be jealous about ? And as for you” 
— naively — “how could you be jealous? You’re 
married.” 

“Unfortunately!” says Mrs. Clarence, amiably. 
“ But even married people — it may surprise you, my 
dear May — but even those unlucky wretches some- 
times have what old maids call ‘ followers.’ Eustace 
has been my ‘ follower ’ for a considerable time.” On 
this, seeing May’s horrified face, she falls back in her 
chair and goes into small shrieks of laughter. “No,” 
gasps she at last, catching hold of the girl’s gown. 


128 


A LONELY MAID, 


No, you can stay with safety. Nothing naughty, I 
assure you. You need not sink into the ground just 
yet. What I meant to say when I began Was, that 
even when married one doesn’t, as a rule, relish the 
idea of one’s best boys being carried off by an alien, 
at a moment’s notice. However, to tell you the 
truth. Pm the exception to that rule !” 

‘‘You mean,” says May, a little vaguely. She is 
thinking that she isn't an exception. 

“ I mean that Eustace is becoming rather a white 
elephant, especially now that Frederic — worse luck 
— is expected home in February. Besides, even if 
Frederic” — her husband — should stay for ever at 
the antipodes, Eustace is growing to be a bore. The 
fact is, I’m tired of him, and so, d’ye see, I’m rather 
glad that he has fallen in love with this new strange 
Amber of ours.” 

“ I never could understand,” says May, looking at 
her, “how you ever consented to marry Major 
Clarence.” 

“ Could you not ? I always could. He was rich, 
I was poor. He was a beast, I was /. That squared 
all that! I make no conceited remarks, you notice. 
He must come in for the title if he lives (which I’m 
afraid he will), and I love a title. And besides, since 
he woke to the idea that he no longer fancied me — a 
tremendous mercy — I feel that life is well worth 
living, in spite of the uncomfortable fact that I still 
bear his name.” 

“ I’d hate to bear his name.” 

“You’re young,” says Dolly. “I want to bear 
his name till he is Lord Adamant; I’m dying to be 


A LOA^ELV iMAID, 


129 


a countess. After that he may depart this life as 
soon as he likes. Only I know he worCt like. He's 
a perfect burr. But you can see, May, that I don't 
want complications when he comes home, so that 
I'm delighted that Eustace has taken a fancy to her." 
‘‘ I see," slowly. And then, She is very pretty." 
‘‘Tut, you little silly," says Mrs. Clarence, laugh- 
ing. “ Do you think Gilbert is in love with her ? 
Not he! He is so far gone in the Slough of De- 
spond with regard to you that I think he will be 
drowned if you will not give him a helping hand. 
Give it. May, and land him on safe and dry ground 1" 
“ Oh, I don't know what you are talking about!" 
says the girl, with suddenly flushed cheeks, but she 
kisses Dolly with extra warmth as they part for the 


CHAPTER XV. 


“ You have too much respect upon the world/' 

It is three days later. Three days of brilliant 
sunshine — of ever-increasing happiness for Amber. 
Like a flower planted in the shade, pining always for 
the light beyond that brought suddenly into the full 
soft warmth and glory of the sun's hot rays, lifts its 
head to heaven, and drinking in rapturously the 
sweetness of the open day, expands into a more per- 
fect beauty, so Amber, whose young days have been 
spent for the most part in gloom and melancholy, 
now blossoms into greater brilliance, and for the first 
time knows herself. Her pretty, low, soft laugh 
rings clear and sound ; her lovely eyes are filled with 
light. She has even acquired a faint touch of inno- 
cent coquetry that sits most charmingly upon her. 

She has been initiated into the mysteries of tennis, 
has shown a truly wonderful aptitude for croquet — 
though when first she came she had known nothing 
of these small delights. Her want of knowledge had 
gone to Hilary's heart. 

“Which will you play?" May had said the morn- 
ing after her arrival. “ Tennis or croquet ?" 

“ I have never played a game in my life," Amber 
had returned; and there was so much suddenly 
130 


A LONELY MAID, 


^31 

awakened wonder, and — was it sorrow ? — in her 
voice that they all felt grieved for her, and Hilary a 
thousand-fold more deeply in love — poor — poor dar- 
ling! 

It is all changed now, however, and it is with joy 
he sees how her gracious, lovely nature is at last 
given full play. 

I wonder what men Madam has invited to her 
dance,'’ says May. Lazily she throws herself back 
in her chair and yawns softly under cover of the 
paper she is holding. It is always a little slow wait- 
ing for the coming of the men after dinner. The 
waiting is longer than usual to-night, because Sir 
Lucien, having been particularly unpleasant all 
through the courses, grew so intolerable as it drew 
towards the grapes, that at last Dolly, with a nod to 
the two girls, had risen somewhat soon and carried 
them off to the drawing-room. 

‘‘ Madam’s dance,” says Amber. ‘‘ But it is not 
sure yet, is it?” 

Tuesday,” says Dolly, concisely. ‘‘I saw her 
to-day. Of course any sane person would give a 
fortnight’s invitation, but Madam is above all such 
silly conventionalities. The invitations are out. The 
dance comes off on Tuesday next.” 

Next Tuesday! Oh, impossible!” says Amber. 

I haven’t a dress of ary sort.” 

‘‘ That’s what I say,” cries May. ** I certainly 
shan’t wear that yellow thing again ; I’m sick of it. 
What are you going to wear, however ?” 

She speaks to Amber, who has dropped upon a 


132 


A LONELY MAID. 


low stool close to the fire in a little familiar attitude, 
that she would not have dreamt of taking when first 
she came to Carrig; but now she has grown into 
sympathy with her cousins — has learnt a little of their 
society ways, that at first had troubled her severely — 
and is very happy with them, although Sir Lucien is 
still a sort of conundrum to her, a bugbear. Why 
are they all so attentive to him ? He has no virtues 
— none, she declares to her own heart. She has not 
taken into her calculations, however, that he has 
money to leave and an excellent chef. 

‘‘Wear? I tell you I have nothing f cries she. 

And Tuesday, a bare week.'* She pauses. Oh ! 
Madam might have told her. She grows very angry 
with Madam. Yet poor Madam, who has her good 
points, didn't tell her, in the hope that Sir Lucien 
would come to the rescue later on, and give her a 
gown for her dance. “ Still" — faltering, as one might 
who knows the sum to be proclairhed altogether in- 
sufficient — “ I have three pounds." 

“ A fortune," cries Dolly, gaily — a sin that surely 
is not laid to her charge. “ But how to spend it. 
That's the real question." As a rule, she gives from 
twenty to forty guineas for her own gowns. 

“ A bare week," echoes May, aghast. Her con- 
sternation is for Amber, not for herself. If the worst 
comes to the worst, the yellow will do very well 
indeed. 

“ Couldn't I buy something and do it up myself?" 
says Amber, who had “ done up" her few gowns since 
her mother's death. 

“ I've a better thought than that," says Mrs. 


A LONELY MAID, 


ii3 


Clarence, with all the air of a born genius. I have 
a gown upstairs — a pink gown — it would suit you 
admirably, Amber. Will you try it on ? We are 
very much the same height.’' 

There is a little silence ; then the girl leans over 
and kisses her on each cheek. ‘‘You are all very 
kind to me. I love you,” says she, gently, “ but I 
could not take your gown.” 

“Do you mean to say you are too proud T' ex- 
claims Dolly, regarding her with unspeakable aston- 
ishment. “ Good heavens ! I wish some one would 
offer me a gown! shouldn’t I jump at it? My 
good child, you are altogether behind the times ; and 
besides, it’s positively stupid of you. Isn’t it. May ?” 

“ It really is. Amber,” says May, with feeling. 
What on earth is she going to wear if she refuses 
this noble offer of Dolly’s ? An offer that has rather 
taken May’s breath away ; Dolly up to this has never 
in the opinion of her intimates come under the head 
of the philanthropist. 

“ I know. I’m sorry, I can’t help it,” in a very 
small voice. 

“You must be a thousand years old,” says Mrs. 
Clarence. She laughs. She is evidently not in the 
least offended. Perhaps she is rather glad that the 
pink gown is not to be divorced from her wardrobe. 
“ You won’t let me help you then ?” 

“ I should be unhappy if I let you help me in that 
way,” says Amber, nervously, and then all at once, 
as it were, she looks up and speaks out what is in 
her heart. “ It is this,” flushing hotly. “ Now I feel 
we are on an equal footing, you and I, even though” 
12 


134 


A LONELY MAID, 


— solemnly — you are rich and I am poor,” which 
statement reduces Dolly to the verge of hysterics. 
Oh! the girl knows nothing! How lovely it is to 
know nothing I But after all — is it ? Dolly reflects. 

“ But,” goes on Amber, in her soft, earnest way, 

once I let you help me, as you put it — that is, 
shower gifts upon me — it would be all quite differ- 
ent; I should lose my independence, my self-respect 

— and ” She pauses; then, very softly, I am 

too fond of you to wish the change in my feelings 
towards you that would surely come of that!' 

'' Doesn’t that sound a little ungenerous ?” says 
May. 

‘‘ I don’t know,” sadly. It may. But” — fling- 
ing up her head — “ I know that I should always 
shrink from you, if you gave me help that I could 
very well do without.” 

” I suppose you call that proper pride,” says Dolly, 
who looks amused, but kindly, ‘"/call it awful rub- 
bish.” Here she tilts her nose, that Heaven has 
already been very kind to in that respect. Now, 
for one thing, if you had accepted my pink gown, 
which is a little marvel, you would have made — 
— well” — with a faint grimace — let us say Hilary 
— sit up.” 

“ Hilary,” says Amber, coldly, “ is the last person 
I desire to attract in that way.” The emphasis es- 
capes her; and even Dolly, who is terrible, respects 
her so far as to refrain from commenting upon it. 

I suppose you think there is no necessity,” she 
contents herself with saying. Well” — laughing — 
“there isn't!" It delights her to think that Amber, 


A LONELY MAID, 


135 


if in love with Hilary, will put aside Everard with 
a high hand; not just at once, but in time for the 
return of her — Dolly’s — husband. She will thus 
enjoy two pleasures — the lowering of Everard’s pride, 
and the cessation of the gossip that up to this has 
coupled her name with his. A letter or two to cer- 
tain people in town hinting at Everard’s undisguised 
admiration for a very beautiful Irish girl, and Dolly’s 
conviction that an engagement will soon come of it, 
will clear the air for her before Colonel Clarence’s 
return. 

I’ll tell you what,” says May, who has been 
thinking. ‘‘ We’ll drive into Clountheen” — the next 
town — ‘‘ and buy something there with Amber’s for- 
tune, and your maid can make it up, Dolly. She 
isn’t half bad at a pinch. How will that do. Amber ? 
Really Merton is a treasure, she fits one so beauti- 
fully. You remember that bodice she altered for 
me, Dolly, when we were in despair at the L’Es- 
tranges’ ?” 

‘‘ She might be worse,” says Dolly, dispassion- 
ately. ‘‘ She’s sulky, I think. But she can be of use 
when frocks are found wanting. If” — with a little 
grimace at Amber — ‘‘ you are not too proud to ac- 
cept my maid’s services, she ” 

Oh, no !” Amber laughs. “ If you will let her 
help me, I shall be very grateful.” 

That’s settled then,” says May. And we three 
shall take an hour or two and spend your three 
pounds gaily. I do so love spending money. Why” 
— sadly — “ isn’t there more of it ?” 

Yes. It’s a beastly shame !” says Mrs. Clarence, 


136 


A LONELY MAID, 


who has grown actually depressed. However, the 
sound of men’s footsteps coming towards them across 
the hall at this moment dispels the light clouds that 
hang upon her fair unwrinkled brow, and it is with a 
smile, hopeful, if slightly anxious, she watches them 
all come in, and sees the door close behind them. 
It has not closed on Sir Lucien. 

‘‘ Has he gone to bed ?” asks she, eagerly. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“ There was a sound of revelry by night/* 

The two girls echo the question with their eyes. 
Sir Lucien at dinner had been so unbearable that 
they are hoping anxiously he will not put in a 
further appearance to-night. Dinner had been a 
torture. 

The minor workings of his mind being his own, 
no one knows what has to-day so specially disturbed 
him, and led to the abominable temper he had dis- 
played all through the courses that May and Amber 
would so thankfully have abridged ; but Dolly, who 
is something of a bon viveur^ had endured him stoi- 
cally, and had enjoyed her dinner immensely, in 
spite of all difficulties. Just at the last she had hur- 
ried herself a little, in answer to the girls' appealing 
eyes. 

“ We trust he is in bed between the fragrant 
sheets!" says Mr. McGrath, sweetly; ‘‘repose I 
should say is most necessary for him. Judging by 
the extraordinary vivacity he displayed all through 
dinner, I should think the dear old man must be 
now quite exhausted. I felt very anxious about 
him, so I asked Martin" — his man — “ about him, 
12* 137 


A LONELY MAID. 


138 

and he has assured me he went straight to his room 
on leaving us. He left us early. Too early.'* 

I must say, Owen, I never heard anyone talk as 
much as you," says his sister — sisters can say what 
they like. ‘‘ You ought to be padlocked." 

So he is really out of the way for to-night," says 
May to Gilbert Grey, who has seated himself on a 
cushion at her feet. ‘‘ Fm so glad. Aren’t you ? 
Wasn’t he awful at dinner?" 

‘‘A slight cessation of hostilities is certainly a 
relief," returns he, laughing. 

Adare has crossed the room to where Amber is 
sitting. 

“You are still alive!" says he, in an amused tone, 
when she has made room for him on the lounge 
beside her. 

“ Do you know," returns she, “ I feel sorry for 
him. How terrible it must be to be hated and feared 
by everybody 1 Poor old man ; I can’t like him, but 
I do pity him." 

“ It’s very good of you," smiling. 

“ Oh I I know you think it misplaced sentiment, 
but I don’t. If anyone were to fear mey I should be 
unhappy." 

“Yet you don’t look it," says he. 

“ 1 1" She lifts her eyes quickly to his as if in 
amazement. Then, something she sees in his, brings 
a swift, hot colour to her cheeks, and her eyes once 
again downwards. 

“ I fear you," says he, in a low tone. 

The situation is growing embarrassing, when sud- 
denly Mr. McGrath comes to the rescue, quite in- 


A LONELY MAW, 


139 


voluntarily, be it said. Indeed there is a touch of 
irony in his being the intervener, as he would have 
been the last person to get them out of their dilemma, 
or to come to their rescue in any way, had he only 
known, being one of those mischievous souls who 
delight in the perplexities of others so long as they 
don’t go too far, don’t touch the misery point. Owen, 
au fond, is rather lovable. 

What he says now in a loud tone is meant to in- 
clude everyone. 

Let’s play a game !’’ He makes this suggestion 
with an air of the most engaging simplicity. 

‘‘ Oh, hang games !” says Gilbert Grey, sotto voce, 
who is very happy sitting on his cushion at May’s 
feet. 

‘‘ Certainly notf says Mr. McGrath, with dignity. 
He always hears everything. “ I disapprove of 
hanging on principle.” 

Very wise,” says Everard, with his soft smile. 
‘‘ Never know when it may come home to your- 
self.” 

‘'Just so,” cheerfully. 

“ Well, I agree with Owen. I really think we 
ought to do something f says Dolly. “ I suppose if 
we danced ” 

“ Impossible,” cries May. “ He’d hear the piano, 
and would certainly come down.” 

“ But he’s in bed.” 

“ I don’t care. He’d come down in his very 
worst ” 

“ Pyjamas,” puts in Owen, anxiously. “ Oh, don’t ! 
Don't let us risk such a sight as that !” 


140 


A LONELY MAID, 


Really, Owen, I must say begins his sister, 

with extreme indignation. 

‘‘ You needn’t. There’s no ‘ must’ about it ; you” 
— agreeably — can skip it. But look here, I know a 
grand game. He’d never hear us.” 

‘‘ We know your grand games !” says Grey, con- 
temptuously. 

‘‘ Honour bright, this time. It’s really the funniest 
game going. Two people go out of the room, don’t 
you know, and make up a proverb or a charade or 
something — it don’t matter a screw which — and then 
dress up and come back.” 

‘‘ Oh, they do come back ?” Everard asks this 
question in the tone of one consumed with curiosity. 
Mr. McGrath takes no notice of it. 

‘‘ They come back dressed up, ye know, and the 
other lot have to make a shot at them, to guess what 
they mean, don’t you know.” 

“ I think we have all heard of that game,” says 
Dolly. ‘‘ Chestnuts are tiresome, and we can quite 
remember the last time fou played it. It’s still quite 
fresh with us. You went to dress with Edie Bathurst, 
and neither she nor you came back under a good half- 
hour. We found the interval a trifle stupid, as you 
had put us in rows, with all the wrong people placed 
next to each other.” 

Oh, I say, what an awful story!” says Mr. 
McGrath, indignantly. “ Half-an-hour to dress ! 
Why, Edie is the smartest girl I know.” 

” That’s it,” says Everard. ‘‘ That’s what kept you 
so long.” 

” Well, she’s not here to-night, anyway.” 


A LONELY MAID. 


141 

*‘No, thank goodness/’ says Mrs. Clarence. 

The best game in the world,” cries May, starting 
up ; “ ’tis ‘ hide and seek.’ We leave two people here 
to seek us. We make up two people to hide — that 
is, the whole lot of us make up into twos, to hide, and 
if Uncle Lucien is in bed, I think, with precautions, 
he will never know anything about it.” 

‘‘ The best game in the world,” says Gilbert Grey, 
moving to her side. Had there been collusion be- 
tween them ? ‘‘ Will you hide with me. May ?” 

Even when May’s speech was only half through, 
Everard had walked deliberately towards Amber. ‘‘ I 
think I heard you say you were not very familiar with 
games. Miss O’Connell ?” He speaks in his slow but 
very charming voice. 

I am not, indeed” — with a gracious smile. Hil- 
ary, beside her, draws his breath sharply. He knows 
what is coming. 

Let me teach you this one.” He pauses. He 
makes for effect sometimes. ‘‘ Miss Adare has de- 
creed that people are to hide in twos. Will you be 
my twin ?” 

‘‘ I should love it,” says Amber, looking eagerly, 
happily round the room, where everyone is laughing 
and pairing. 

“ Well, come,” says Everard. 

He takes her hand and draws her towards the 
doorway through which the other pair is disappear- 
ing — May and — Owen. 

Dolly’s face, as she sees the first pair go, is a pic- 
ture of surprise. Only five minutes ago she had 
heard Gilbert ask May to hide with him. Had she 


142 


A LONELY MAW. 


refused ? A little fool then ! or had that troublesome 
Owen interfered ? She was very close to the mark 
when she thought this. May’s tHe-a-tUe with Gilbert 
had been swept down upon by Owen, and, unable to 
conquer the desire to make her true love even more 
her lover, she had most cruelly, if naturally, agreed 
to hide with Owen. At this moment Hilary, coming 
into the room, takes Dolly’s hand. '' Come,” says he. 

Grey having reached her with almost the same in- 
tention in his eyes, she pushes Hilary very gently 
aside. 

No, I shall go with Gilbert. You shall stay here 
and guard the goal !” Goal is one of Sir Lucien’s 
best ottomans, now placed for convenience in the 
middle of the room. To stay here and meditate on 
Amber’s going into hiding with Everard is what she 
really means ! That, if anything, will bring matters 
between him and Amber to a crisis. 

‘‘ I thought it was arranged that there were to be 
two to hunt ! It seems unfair,” says Hilary, smiling. 
He has suppressed the rage of grief and anger in his 
heart very successfully. 

“ There is no one left for you,” cries she, gaily, dis- 
appearing round the door with Gilbert. Come and 
hunt us, but don’t come until we cry ‘ Cooee !’ ” 

Hilary, with a heavy frown upon his brow, is left 
to wait until the promised sound shall start him on 
the war-path. Presently, the clear Australian cry (a 
very moderated cry now, lest it should reach Sir 
Lucien’s bedroom) catching his ear, he begins his 
quest with an eagerness that never yet has he felt in 
this game before. Cautiously, but swiftly, he glances 


A LONELy MAW, 


143 


behind this door, under that table, behind every cur- 
tain. At last, a little muffled shriek from May de- 
clares her and Owen's hiding-place behind the cur- 
tains in the library no longer a secret — but as Adare 
makes a pounce at her, she suddenly, and with abom- 
inable meanness, pushes Owen into his arms, and as 
both men collide, she slips past them and gains the 
ottoman in the drawing-room in safety. 

‘‘ Caught !" says Hilary to Owen, then starts again. 
Dolly, who is remarkably fast in every way, would 
certainly have escaped, but that unfortunately the 
lace of her gown catching in the door handle of the 
morning-room brings her to an abrupt standstill, 
whilst her partner, Grey, who is racing after her, 
stumbles over the tail of her gown on the polished 
floor and comes with a tremendous crash to the 
ground. 

Three captures! But where is Amber? Hilary, 
rushing to the drawing-room, looks in, to see only 
May and Owen sitting on the goal, evidently swear- 
ing at each other. No sign of Amber or Everard. 

Jealousy begins to burn madly now, and with his 
face set he turns back to search again. With ever- 
increasing anger and disgust he tells himself he 
would throw up the chase altogether, and let them 
continue their so evidently interesting tHe-a-tete be- 
hind some dusky curtains, but that this act would 
be commented upon by the others and betray the 
secret that he fondly, but erroneously, believes to be 
known only to himself and May. For all this his 
eyes grow remarkably keen ; he leaves no corner un- 
searched. Anxiety is growing into misery, when 


144 


A LONELY MAID, 


suddenly, out of a little corner in the dim old hall, 
she flits past him like a delicate swallow, and eluding 
his eager hand, flies up the drawing-room, and flings 
herself beside May upon the ottoman. Her eyes are 
shining, her lips parted in happy laughter. She has 
raised one hand to her slim throat, and her voice 
comes with a little joyous throbbing. 

Oh ! Let us try it again !*' Involuntarily, quite 
openly, her eyes turn to Adare. Just fancy. You 
were quite near us several times. Once you touched 
my dress.*’ 

‘‘You were very near goal all the time,” returns 
he, in a low, reproachful tone. Everard is talking to 
Dolly. “ In the hall — you had only to run round 
the doorway — why did you not try to escape before?” 

“ I don’t know. Mr. Everard said it would hardly 
be fair. We were so very near the goal.” 

“ Come with me this time ?” says he, eagerly, pas- 
sionately. That sly devil with his touch about fair- 
ness shan’t have a second chance. 

“ Make them hurry,” says Amber. The words are 
delightful to a lover’s ears — or should be ; but alas ! 
he can see in her now brilliant eyes that the terrible 
joy of being hunted — of being very nearly caught — of 
making a splendid escape, are all she is thinking about 

These be joys that very many other women seek 
also ; but in what a different fashion ! Truly the 
game of hide and seek is an apt illustration of the 
life that some women lead. Happy they who reach 
the goal. 

“ Who’s to hunt now?” asks Mr. McGrath, seating 
himself with a happy bang upon the long ottoman. 


A LONELY MAID. 


MS 

It gives an ominous creak as he does so. It is in- 
deed clear to anyone of any intelligence that there 
will be very little ottoman left by to-morrow. 

“ I caught you, Dolly,’' says Adare, but you get 
off, as I caught Grey and Owen too. By-the-bye, I 
didn’t catch you, Everard, did I ?” In his delight at 
seeing Amber, he had indeed forgotten all about the 
catching of Everard. 

The latter smiles. 

“ I don’t think so !” says he. ‘‘ I’m afraid” — pat- 
ting Adare’s shoulder affectionately — ‘‘ you think 
I’m getting too old for these kind of games! You 
are letting me down easy. I’m not in the running, 
you think.” 

‘‘ If ever I do catch you,” says Adare, laughing 
very naturally, “ it will be very bad for you. So 
look out.” 

Owen and Grey are as usual wrangling. 

‘‘You were caught first,” says Gilbert. 

“ What’s that got to do with it ? You were caught 
second. Second thoughts are best. Besides, you 
and Dolly were caught together. That makes two 
to my one.” 

“ Draw lots !” says Dolly. 

“Yes, that’s the best plan,” declares Hilary, who 
is secure in his partner. 

“ I don’t think so. It’s very unfair,” says Grey. 
“ However, I don’t care.” This with a look of 
deadly reproach at May, who tries not to see it. 

The lots are drawn, and once again luck decides 
against Grey. 

“ All right ! Go on,” says he, with a dismal affec- 
G k 13 


146 


A LONELY MAID, 


tation of not caring. “ But be quick anyway; don’t 
keep me here all night.” 

This is distinctly brusque ; no one takes any notice 
of it, because all know the reason. Once again he 
sees Owen carry off the perfidious May. 

May, however, feels furious. What does he mean 
by saying he doesn't care" ? He doesn’t care, in- 
deed ! Well, then, why should she care ? And 
— recklessly — she doesn’t either, so there ! 

She will take very good care he doesn’t find her 
in a hurry anyway. Last week there had been a 
game something like this, and she had let him find 
her! 


CHAPTER XVII. 


“ Faith thou hast some crotchets in thy head now.” 

‘‘The last was a bad place, Owen,'' declares she. 
They are in the hall now, discussing the possibilities 
of this place and that, as safe hiding-corners. “ Where 
did you hide that night a week ago — before Amber 
came? You remember? Nobody could find you." 

“ If you swear you won't give me away, I'll let 
you into it," says Mr. McGrath, solemnly. 

“ I swear, then." 

“ Honest Injun ?" 

“ Oh, go on !" — impatiently. Miss Adare doesn't 
seem to be in her sweetest temper. 

“ Don't whack the willing ass !" says Mr. McGrath, 
with dignity. 

“ Well, where were you that time ?" 

“ Hanging !" — briefly, but beautifully. 

“ What! Already!" — with saturnine gaiety. 

“ Oh ! come, I call that beastly," says he. 

“ Never mind, never mind, go on. So you were 
hanging?" 

“ By George, yes, and by the neck" — bursting into 
a laugh at the recollection, that is choked into its 
birth by the little shake she gives him. 

“ What misguided person cut you down ?" 


147 


148 


A LONELY MAID. 


No one/^ 

Good heavens says May. I have had many 
disagreeable surmises about you. But don’t say 
you are a spook.” 

‘‘ Not I. I’m all there, as a rule. I only looked as 
if I was hanging, don’t you know.” 

Oh ! I see^' says May, who is plainly and openly 
disappointed. 

‘‘ It was like this ” His explanation is short and 

terse; knowing the cry ‘‘ Cooee” may come at any mo- 
ment from the other hiders, he hurries over his story at 
express speed. He had gone into a recess in a little 
room off the hall — where a hatstand stood — relic of 
earlier days — had found an overcoat on it — had en- 
sconced in it his manly form. Had found, too, a tall 
hat, that he devoutly hoped did not belong to old 
Major Mulcahy (the dirtiest man in the county), 
a sort of familiar of Sir Lucien’s, and pressed it 
down firmly on his brows. It went over his brows 
with a jerk, and fell right on to his neck. He knew 
then it did belong to the major, who had a head for a 
Titan, and was the uncleanest devil. However, in 
for a penny, in for a pound, and having thus misera- 
bly obliterated himself, he had crept close to the old 
hatstand and waited. He had so arranged himself 
indeed as to look as if he were actually hanged — a 
fate that his sister always said would eventually, 
sooner or later, overtake him. 

Look here. I’ll explain it to you,” says he, drag- 
ging her across the hall to the anteroom described 
where the memorable hatstand is. I got myself 
into position, there^ d’ye see ? Put on the overcoat. 


A LONELY MAID, 


149 


By Jove, here’s another one quite handy, and another 
old hat ! Did you ever see such luck ? — like the 
major’s too ! Nearly as greasy. His came down to 
my neck.” 

He tries on the hat in question, which certainly 
comes down to his shoulders, and emerges from it 
breathless, but full of enterprise. Hair look funny ?” 
asks he, hurriedly running his hands over it. The 
struggle with the hat had certainly done strange 
things to it. 

” It looks as if you had slept in it,” says May, 
critically. 

” In the hat ? Thank heaven, that is beyond me. 
Death, kindly death, in preference. It’s a frightful hat.” 

‘‘ I didn’t say that,” says May, who seems to be 
listening for footsteps. ” I said your hair looked as 
if you had slept in it.” 

I do, as a rule,” says Mr. McGrath, who is search- 
ing diligently amongst the garments hanging on the 
old hatstand. “ It don’t come off at any price — 
Oh ! look here ! I’ve found the old hat again ! I’m 
afraid” — anxious inquiry — “ we couldn’t both get into 
it?” 

The major’s hat?” No, thank you! One of us 
couldn’t, at all events.” 

‘‘ Not even in the cause of this great game !” 

‘‘ No, thank you 1” 

‘‘ You are terribly narrow,” says Mr. McGrath with 
a sigh. However, here’s the coat — we can both get 
into that quite easily.” 

‘‘ Certainly / shall not,” says May, with extreme 
dignity. 


150 A LONELY MAID. 

'' And” — with an indignation that crushes her dig- 
nity out of sight — why not^ pi'^y 

‘‘ Really, Owen, you are too stupid for anything. 
You are a bigger fool even than you look.” 

‘‘ Fm notr 
‘‘ Oh!” 

At this they both break into silent but irrepressible 
laughter. 

“ Anyway,” says she, do you suppose any girl 
would consent to be wrapped up in an old coat with 
you ?” 

“ Lots of ’em,” says Mr. McGrath, with absolute 
conviction. 

‘‘ You honestly believe that?” 

I know it.” 

/ wouldn’t.” 

‘‘Very good; that’s final, I suppose. And there’s 
the ‘ cooee’ now” — a long, soft note coming to 
them. “ You may go away and get a better man to 
hide with — though I’m far from believing it — but I 
know you’ll never get a better hiding-place. They 
passed within an inch of me last time I was here, 
over and over again, and never once even suspected 
me. 

Here he turns away from her and begins to 
ensconce himself in the strange garments on the 
stand. 

“ Wait — wait,” cries she, softly. Footsteps now 
are sounding in the hall outside. It would never do 
for Gilbert Grey to find her alone — unconcealed — un- 
appropriated. ” Is” — tremulously — “ the coat big ?” 

‘‘ Made for Sir William Harcourt,” says Owen, in a 


A LONELY MAID, 


stifled tone; '‘come on! You haven’t a second! 
But the place in here is pitch dark.” 

“ Dark !” She hesitates perceptibly. 

“ Oh, come on if you’re coming!” cries Mr. Mc- 
Grath, angrily ; “ what has the dark got to do with 
it ? I’m not going to kiss you if that’s what you’re 
thinking.” 

This is really unpardonably rude. 

“ I meant nothing of the sort,” indignantly. 

“ Sh — sh,” whispers he ; and indeed the footsteps 
in the hall are now coming perilously near. She 
rushes behind the hatstand. 

It is indeed Gilbert who has entered. He marches 
quickly round the small room. There is terrible 
animosity even in the fall of his foot, May tells her- 
self, trembling in the darkness. Will he see her? 
Find her ? She hopes “ Yes,” and then hopes “ No.” 
The exigencies of the moment seem to make a 
necessity of the fact that Mr. McGrath’s arm is 
passed tightly around her. Still, if he came near, 
she could push this silly Owen away. But, alas, 
the coat that envelops her and her fellow culprit 
comes down to her toes, and Grey, after a perfunc- 
tory glance at the corner where the hatstand is, and 
where it is plain to him that nothing can be but a 
particularly huge old coat hanging up — with a par- 
ticularly dingy old hat on the top of it — marches out 
of the room again. 

“ Didn’t I tell you it was the best place in the 
world !” says Mr. McGrath, with conscious pride. 
“ That idiot never once thought of our being here.” 

“There are more idiots in the world than one T 


152 


A LONELY MAID. 


says Miss Adare, oracularly, and, seeing the coast 
clear, as she peeps round the doorway, she makes a 
little dash for the ottoman, and reaches it in safety. 

Mr. McGrath follows her at great speed — the 
greater in that Grey has seen him, and is pursuing 
him hotly. So tremendous is Owen’s oncoming that 
May rises suddenly from the “ goal” to give him full 
play. Grey is too late. Owen reaches it, and flings 
himself upon it with a wave of triumph. 

There is a crash — a roar — a sound of splintering 
wood! The ottoman has come to an untimely end! 
It is, indeed, no more! And Mr. McGrath, planted 
firmly on the ground, sits musing there, like Marius, 
amongst the ruins ! 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


“ The eye it cannot choose but see, 
We cannot bid the ear be still; 
Our bodies feel, where’er they be. 
Against, or with our will.’* 


Out here under the lovely moonbeams, things are 
going very differently. It is one of those nights in 
the far autumn that seem to have been born too late, 
and that still breathe of the sweetness of a past July. 
As Hilary and Amber run lightly down the steps of 
the verandah, the delicate freshness of the night air 
falls upon them, giving them a delicious sense of 
coolness, of freedom. In there, the room had been 
so warm ! 

Amber, turning up her beautiful face to the heaven 
above her, stops, as if to drink more freely of this 
gracious breeze, and Hilary, watching her, feels his 
pulses throb. All day he had waited for this moment, 
and now it is his. He is alone with her ! When 
they had started on their hiding expedition, he had 
drawn her to the morning-room, and then to the 
window of it, that lay wide open to let the moon- 
beams wander in, and without a word passing between 
them they had both cast the game behind them, and 
elected to spend the few minutes they should have 

153 


A LONELY MAID. 


154 

spent cramped up behind curtains or doors — amongst 
the brilliant lights and shades of the warm night. 

“ The full moon from her cloudless skies 
Turneth her face, I think,” — 

On Amber surely ! How could she resist so sweet 
a gazer? Yet she does not disdain the silver firs 
beyond, but lying on them too endows them with 
something of her glory. Sweet, shadowy corners, 
that seem to call one to come and rest in them, lie 
on every side, whilst here, and around, are broad 
wide stretches of light — silent, calm, and peaceful. 
All is silence out here, indeed, save for the musical 
tinkling of the little river behind the firs, that is sing- 
ing its little song so softly to itself, and will sing it 
through all the quiet night, careless that no one stays 
to hear it — unregretful that all the world lies sleeping, 
save itself. 

“ I have been trying all day to see you alone,” says 
Adare ; ‘‘ but something prevented me. Was it” — 
smiling — you ?” 

“ How could I know you wanted to see me alone ? 
Why,” smiling back at him in a little friendly fashion, 
but with open surprise in her eyes — ‘‘ why did you ?” 

What a question,” a little resentfully perhaps. 
Can’t she see? Does she not know? ‘‘For one 
thing,” he goes on, dropping into his former manner, 
and regarding her very earnestly, “ to give you these.” 

He has put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, 
and pulled out two dainty little boxes. 

“ I” — opening them — “ want you to wear these 
instead of the others — that I’m afraid” — with much 


A LONELY MAID. 


I5S 

self-reproacli — ** I made you give up.” Here he 
holds out to her two rings on the palm of his hand. 
One can see that they are rings to be despised by no 
woman — the diamonds and sapphires in them flash- 
ing exquisitely beneath the rays of the watching 
moon. 

For me says Amber. She looks at them as 
if not believing. She has taken a step backwards in 
her surprise. But now their beauty draws her, and 
she comes nearer. She does not, however, attempt to 
touch them. 

“ Restitution of a sort!” says he, laughing a little 
nervously. Ever since I have seen your poor little 
fingers without those toys you loved, I — I have 
hated myself. I have felt like a thief! But if you 

will put these on Why don’t you take them ? 

Are you still angry with me ? Oh I don’t say that. 
They should have been here some days ago, but I 
wanted them to be as like the originals as possible, 
and it took some time — and of course I know they 
are very paltry in comparison — but you will take 

them — won’t you? You ” He hesitates now. 

What is there in her face that he cannot quite read ? 
“You will try them on, and see if they will fit 
you ?” 

“ Oh, no r She does not really move this time, 
yet he is filled with the impression that she has 
shrunk from him. He looks quickly at her — pas- 
sionate question in his eyes. 

“ I couldn’t,” says the girl, in a little choked voice 
— “ I couldn’t. Don’t ask me, and don’t — don't 
think me unkind or ungrateful, or — or horrid in any 


A LONELY MAID, 


156 

way. Only She breaks off suddenly; and then 

before he has time to say anything she goes on again : 
“ Can’t you see ? can’t you understand ? The thought 
of those rings is hateful to me. I wore them when 
I had no right to them. You said the word thief 
just now; I was the thief then. I think” — vehe- 
mently — ‘‘I should not have induced you to hide 
them in the old mill, but — but I had not the courage 
to tell Sir Lucien about them then, and” — sadly — “ I 
have not the courage now either. He would not be- 
lieve me. No” — stopping him, imperatively — ‘‘he 
would not. He would put his own construction on 
the way I got them, and it would only make things 
worse for poor dad’s memory. I have thought it all 
out, since I have been here. Do you know, when I 
came I had the idea of telling him. I fancied when 
Sir Lucien saw me, he would know that my father 
could not — could not” — here her poor little voice, 
in spite of all her courageous efforts to control her 
grief and misery and honest indignation, breaks 
pitiably — “have stolen or sold those stones; but it 
is all over now.” 

“ Give him more time,” says Adare, with a mad 
effort to help her in this distress that is hurting him 
even more than her ; hurting him as though a knife 
had been driven into him. Poor — poor\\\A^ darling ! 

“ Do you think I can’t hear the disbelief in your 
voice ?” says she, reproachfully. “ You know as well 
as I do that if I gave him all the time that still re- 
mains to us he would not believe in my father’s hon- 
esty. I read that in his eyes and in his manner 
towards me. He will believe only when I or some- 


A LONELY MAID, 


157 

one else give him back those dreadful jewels. He 
hates me.” 

“ He is a devil!” says the young man, with sudden 
fierceness. ‘‘ He hates every one.” After a little 
while, '‘You know he thinks Deane has something 
to do with them.” 

" Yes, I know. Perhaps — perhaps he has.” 

Adare starts. 

" Why do you say that so strangely ?” 

" I never really believed it before, but now ” 

She pauses, her agitation increasing. “ He said once 
he knew where they were, but I did not believe 
him. He told me something about them, when — 

when ” She hesitates, and of course is lost. 

Adare catches her hands angrily. 

" Go on ! When ?” 

" When” — faintly — " he asked me to marry him.” 

" He did ask you then. That old man did not 
lie ?” 

" No ; he asked me. And as a bribe — I thought 
then it was an idle bribe — he hinted that he could 
clear my father’s memory — could and would restore 
the necklaces and all the missing ornaments if only 
I would consent to marry him.” 

" And you ?” His hands unconsciously have 

tightened painfully on hers. With a little haughty 
gesture she shakes herself free. 

“ Why,” demands she, coldly, " do you question 
me like this ? Do you think I should ever consent 
to marry a man like Brian Deane! You heard me 
before say I would not. ^But” — throwing up her 
head — " all this is nothing — nothing. The real ques- 
14 


158 


A LONELY MAID. 


tion is, how to compel Brian to tell where the hidden 
treasure is — if” — with suddenly renewed disbelief — 

he knows !” 

Hilary is silent. He has known for some time of 
the compact between his uncle and Deane, of the 
bargain the latter has made — Amber for him ; the 
missing gems for Sir Lucien. Oddly enough Deane 
had not demanded the instant return of the girl to 
the old mill house. Nor had he mentioned to Sir 
Lucien his fear of Adare’s infatuation for Amber. 
Perhaps he believed in the old man’s power over Hil- 
ary to do away with that fear. The title would cer- 
tainly be Hilary’s after Sir Lucien’s death, but if Sir 
Lucien disinherited him, the title would be a barren 
honour, or almost so. He had kept back, too, the 
belief (that was hideous to him) of Amber’s love for 
Hilary — electing to play it as a trump card should 
things go badly between him and Sir Lucien ; so that 
if Sir Lucien had had any suspicion of an attachment 
between Amber and Hilary — when first the girl came 
— it is quite at rest now. Indeed, Everard’s open 
attentions to her during the past few days have com- 
pletely reassured him as to that. 

‘‘ Did you hear he was closeted with Sir Lucien 
again to-day ?” asks she, presently. 

‘‘ Yes.” 

“ Does that mean — oh ! I can’t bear to go into it — 
but if he knows where those hateful things are, my 

father must have known, too, and ” 

It doesn’t follow !” exclaims he, eagerly. ‘‘ And 
at all events, if they can be produced by Deane it 
will prove your father did not dispose of them. And 


A LONELY MAID. 


159 

that, even though he often was in distress for want 
of money/' 

“ But” — miserably — what earthly reason could 
poor, poor papa have for concealing them ?” 

“ If Deane could be made to speak we might find 
out.” 

The ‘‘ we” seems to comfort her. 

‘‘ I don't know what I should do if I had not you 
to discuss it all with,” she says, with a little sigh that 
is very sad but very grateful too. She holds out her 
hand to him with a suspicion of tender camaraderie 
that touches him deeply. He takes it, holding it 
closely. Shall he speak now ? Now ? Could mo- 
ment be more fitting? But the little hands lie so 
placidly in his, the beautiful eyes are so calm. Oh, 
no, not yet — she does not love him yet. Will she 
ever love him ? Will it be only friendship on her 
side always ? 

It is very hard to let the hand go. But he does 
release it, not, however, until he has pressed a warm 
and lingering kiss upon it. As he does so a vindic- 
tive cloud flies across the kind moon's face, making 
the whole garden dark for the time being, and hiding 
from Adare the face he loves. Perhaps if he could 
have seen it — then — as his lips lay upon her hand, 
he would have spoken ! 

“ Hi ! there ! You two !” A loud call from lungs 
calculated to last until their owner is ninety breaks 
the silence. To Mr. McGrath alone could those 
lungs belong. 

Oh, come !” cries Amber, hurrying down the 
path towards the house ; we must have been out 


l6o A LONELY MAW. 

here ever so long. Oh ! hurry T She flies on feet 
that would have outri vailed Atalanta, but just at the 
end of the verandah steps he catches her up. 

Amber’' — seizing her arm — '‘one word. You 
won’t hide again with Everard ?” 

" There won’t be time, will there?” 

This answer displeases him. How if after all 

And Everard, many women have loved Everard ! 

" Even should there be, will you promise ?” His 
tone has changed. 

Amber makes a pause. He mistakes the mean- 
ing of it. 

“ You don’t like him?” says she at last, question- 
ingly. 

“ Oh, I don’t know !” He hesitates and hedges, 
as a man always will when the question of giving 
away another man is in view. " He isn’t half bad. 
It isn’t that. But of course” — a little stiffly — " if you 
wish to ” 

“ I don’t,” says she, quite simply. At which he 
laughs involuntarily and very gladly. " But I want 
to know why you said that.” 

“ CanT you guess ?” says he. " If there is so little 
time as you say, why — give it to me. Let us go and 
hide together again!' 

" Pouf!” says she, with an adorable glance at him 
as she runs up the steps. “ Again ! I suppose you 
think you are playing the game now, standing out 
here in the middle of the garden for all the world to 
see! You know nothing about it.” 

It is the most extraordinary speech! It might 
have come from a finished coquette — or from the 


A LONELY MAID. 


i6i 


heart of a most innocent girl. How can one read a 
heart ? 

But there she is ! And she herself speaks for 
herself. He casts behind him all false suspicions, but 
his heart is a little heavy as he follows her. She 
certainly had not refused to hide next time with 
Everard ! 

:|e :1c 5K * * ♦ * 

‘‘You're nice people! Ton my word you are," 
says Mr. McGrath, darting down upon them as they 
come out of the shadow into the light of the drawing- 
room. “ Awfully shabby I call it to keep out of the 
row like that !" 

“ Row ?" 

“ Rather ! my dear fellow. Battle, murder, and 
very nearly sudden death would describe it better. 
I fell on that confounded old ottoman in there whilst 
you" — with bitterness — " were disporting yourselves 
out there in the dewy stillness of the night, with 
birds and worms, and other nice things — and nearly 
broke my shins. Shins are painful, and of course I 
roared ; and the old boy heard me, and came 
tumbling down, pyjamas and all, and pretty nearly 
blew us into next week." 

“ No ?" says Amber, in a low note that designates 
terror. 

“Yes," tragically. “And," with a glance that 
freezes her, “he asked where you were I You’re in 
for a good thing to-morrow I shouldn’t wonder !’’ 

“ Oh no," faintly. She looks at Hilary as if for 
protection. A little move that sets all his pulses 
going with joy and gladness. “ You didn’t tell him ?" 

/ 14* 


i 62 


A LONELY MAID, 


'' I was just going to/' says Mr. McGrath (who 
would have died on the rack first), “ when that mis- 
guided idiot Everard put in his shout and told a most 
awful tarradiddle. He said you had gone to bed 
directly after dinner with a violent toothache, and 
that Hilary was in the stables seeing after the young 
mare who had got the pip, or something. I'd advise 
you" — staring severely at Amber — to have a swelled 
jaw in the morning." 

‘‘ I couldn't," says Amber. It would be impos- 
sible, and besides " 

“ Nothing is impossible to Dolly's maid," says Mr. 
McGrath, imperturbably. Ask her to balloon your 
cheek." 

What nonsense !" says Amber ; and then, Oh, 
how good of Mr. Everard," cries she, when of course 
she ought to have said how bad. For had he not 
told lies on her account ! She passes the two men, 
and, gaining the drawing-room, goes quickly up to 
Everard. 

‘‘ It was kind of you," she says. Her gleaming 
eyes are raised to his, her charming face is lit up 
with eager gratitude. It is impossible to mistake 
what she means. 

‘‘ So much — for so little !" says Everard, in a very 
low tone, so low, indeed, that it reaches her only. 
But Dolly, whose eyes are as good as other people’s 
eyes and ears, laughs to herself It goes bravely for 
me, thinks she. I shall be able to shake him off in 
time. 

“ It was a great deal," says Amber. Her voice is 
news for the room. 


A LONELY MAID. 


163 


' “ Was it ? I must try to deserve your thanks 

later on/' He looks straight over her head at Hilary. 
It is a silent declaration of war, and as such Hilary 
receives it. He had shielded Everard’s reputation 
just now from this — this child! who would hardly 
understand the depravity of the man — but if Everard 
really means war, Adare feels himself relieved from 
' all sense of friendship, of courtesy. Amber, if it 
/ comes to the point, shall know the character of the 
; man who desires to marry her ! 

Dolly, sitting on a prie-dieu watching the little by- 
play, feels — not pious, but intensely amused. 

^ “ Were there ever such fools ?" thinks she. And 

I then, It is very late," says she, rising. Something 

i in Hilary's eye warns her to make a move. There 
was absolute murder in it, she told herself later on in 
her bedroom. 

‘‘ Only twelve," says Grey, gloomily. He has told 
^ himself that he cannot sleep without showering 
;; many, many unpleasant epithets upon May's fluffy 
ii head ; but now the chance seems vague. 

& “ Twelve !" cries Owen. Only twelve ! The 

night's an infant still. Wait — wait a moment. Sleep 
is but oblivion — whilst /can offer you " He hur- 

ries across the room and dives behind a stool ; and 
(after their long knowledge of him) so stupid are they 
I all that they wait quite quietly for the fulfilment of 
i the joys he has hinted at. 

Presently he reappears from behind the stool. His 
\ face has a condescending smile upon it. • He makes 
, a gesture as if to fling back a flowing mane, that cer- 
tainly his head had never possessed, and with a small 


A LONELY MAID. 


banjo under his arm he comes forward into the very- 
middle of the room. 

‘‘A little thing of my own/* says he, sweetly; 
thrown off last night ! I can lay claim ’* — with a 
smile that is modest, yet great — “ to both words 
and mu *' 

In a second the room is empty. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“ His face was full of grey old miseries, 

And all his blood’s increase 
Was even increase of pain.” 

Last night there had been rain as the darkness 
grew to dawn, and now a soft moisture is rising from 
the leaves lying on the sodden ground. Amber, 
picking her steps delicately, not on the wet path, but 
on the spongy moss that skirts it, goes on her way 
through the almost leafless wood, her head a little 
bent and a smile upon her lips that is half sweet, 
half sad, and full of a new wonderment. 

The night gone by had been a strange one for her. 
For the first time in all her curious girlhood, she had, 
for one thing, lain wide awake as hour by hour went 
by thinking, thinking, and her thoughts carried her far 
and far, but always back to one centre. 

That kiss upon her hand ! It had gone from her 
hand to her heart and stayed there. What did it 
mean? That is the burden of all her thinking. Does 
he love her? Can he love her? Her, her / It is a 
tremendous question, and takes great answering. A 
whole sleepless night long — lying with sleepless eyes 
working it out — is surely but a very short time to 
give to so momentous, so wonderful, so — she hardly 
knows what sort of question it is. 


165 


i66 


A LONELY MALD, 


At breakfast, held in bondage still, by this worry- 
ing thought, she hardly dares to look at Hilary ; and 
breakfast over, she had slipped away to the eterna! 
comfort, and rest, of the silent woods. 

Here she will work it out. Here she will be able 
to think indeed. 

Softly, but with a little chill in it, blows the wind. 
Now there are but few leaves left to play with it, to 
make a pretty fight, to shake their green and tender 
pennons in its face with saucy defiance. 

Those leaves, alas ! now 

“ Lie upon the dark earth brown and rotten, 

Miry and matted in the soaking wet, 

Forgotten with the spring, that is forgotten 
By them, who can forget.” 

Will she ever “ forget’' ? All at once, walking 
quietly through the woods, she knows that she never 
will. She knows that she loves him. Such knowl- 
edge is an education in itself. The girl stands quite 
still staring straight before her. She loves him, and 
he loves her. She is quite as sure of one as of the 
other. Her soul seems to soar to heaven as this 
blest thought enters into it ; and then all at once, in 
the twinkling of an eye as it were — it sinks to hell. 

To love him, to permit him to love heVy will mean 
ruin to him ! Sir Lucien would not hear of a mar- 
riage between them — and — Sir Lucien has it in his 
power to disinherit him. Mr. Everard had told her 
that, when she was hiding with him last night. And 
— and of course there is something to be said for 
Sir Lucien. She will be fair! Quite fair. A girl 


A LONELY MAID, 


167 


whose father is accused of doing away with very 
valuable jewels that in no way belonged to him, is 
hardly a girl one would wish one's heir to marry. 
Unless the jewels are restored, and her father's name 
cleared of dishonour, all joy and hope in her life are 
at an end. 

At this moment she finds she has stepped off the 
mossy edge of the path, and is walking in a blind 
sort of way through the wet leaves. The discovery 
seems to her to be in line with her thoughts. The 
upper pathway on the nice soft mosses for the happy 
ones of the earth, for her the lower, the paths of 
discomfort. 

It is at this point of her sad reflections that she 
lifts her eyes and sees Brian Deane standing a few 
yards away from her. She is conscious that she 
starts a little at his sudden appearance, but going 
quickly forward she gives him her hand, which he 
takes and holds, staring eagerly at her face. Heaven 
alone knows what fears he had entertained about 
her, about her being turned '' into a fine lady," as he 
puts it to himself — during the detested visit to Carrig 
— and it is with intense relief that he sees she is quite 
her old self. 

‘‘ Alone !" says he. All the love for her that his 
wild untutored heart undoubtedly knows does not 
prevent the touch of sarcasm that enters into his 
voice. ‘‘ Not even the handsome cousin to keep you 
company. Or, perhaps," with sudden darkening of 
his frowning brows, ‘‘ you are on your way to meet 
him ?" 


A LONELY MAID. 


1 68 

“ I have come out to meet nobody/' says Amber, 
coldly, and with a glance of scorn. 

“ I'm glad to hear it. I have been waiting about 
the place for days in the hope of seeing you." 

“Why should you do that? Why not come 
straight to the house and ask to see me? You," 
^ — with a little rush, as though the thought is dis^ 
tasteful to her — “ you are my cousin." 

“ With all that damn lot round you ? No ! I 
wanted to see you alone. You" — he hesitates and 
coughs clumsily — “ you remember that last conver- 
sation I had with you ?" 

“ No," distinctly. “ I thought it wiser to forget 
it." 

“Your wisdom doesn't seem to have helped you," 
says he, with an ugly sneer. Then, with a sharp 
vehemence, “ It’s hard to forget — isn’t it ? Does 
anyone ever forget, I wonder? I would to heaven it 
weren’t so hard, for then I might perhaps be able to 
forget you/ But I can’t, you see. That’s what it 
comes to. I can’t put you out of my mind." 

“ Why do you talk to me like this, Brian," says 
the girl, very gently, “ when you know — when you 
know*' — with agitation — “ that it is so useless ?’’ 

“ What I know," says he, his pale, dogged face 
now a dull crimson, “ is, that it shall not be useless. 
No ! by heaven ! Mine you shall be. I have sworn 
it!" 

Suddenly catching her by both her arms, he com- 
pels her with brute force so to turn that a fuller 
light from the dull sky falls upon her face. 

“ You think you love that fellow. You think that 


A LONELY MAID, 169 

he loves you — I tell you, you are a fool. Doubly 
a fool. . . y 

He breaks off. There is a slight pause, whilst her 
eyes gaze unfalteringly into his. 

“ Take your hands away, Brian/' says she at last, 
not angrily, not nervously, but with a cold courage, 
a haughty command, that seems to go to his very 
soul. He releases her instantly. Of course I quite 
understand that you hardly know what you are say- 
ing or doing," she goes on ; “ therefore I forgive 
you, and shall bear you no ill-will." She lightly 
brushes down the sleeves of her coat where his 
hands had held her. All the most violent words of 
contempt or anger she could have showered upon 
him could not have conveyed to him half so clearly 
as this slow and simple gesture the state of her mind 
towards him. It is casting him from her into outer 
darkness indeed ! 

‘‘ Ill-will from you to me !" His tone now is 
changed. The passion in it of a moment ago is sup- 
pressed, and tinged with an acute anguish. “ To 
bear ill-will to me, my girl, would be mere folly. 
Why / am the one who loves you ! You — are the 
only thing I love on earth — the only thing I ever 
have loved. You think that Captain Adare will 
marry you ? I tell you he neither will — ^nor can. 
His uncle would disinherit him if he did so. That 
damned young fool," his voice again rising, is play- 
ing with you ! But I — I love you !" 

There is such intense reality in his whole air that 
Amber’s heart softens within her. 

15 


H 


A LONELY MAID. 


170 

“ I am sorry/’ says she, very kindly, very sweetly, 
but, as he feels, finally. 

‘‘ What do you mean ?” cries he, fiercely. '' Be 
sorry for yourself! When he shows you plainly at 
the last that his uncle’s thousands are more to him 
than a penniless girl — a girl, too, with the story of 
her father’s dishonour hung round her neck, as her 
only wedding ornament” — here he laughs wildly — 
“ how will it be with you then f' 

He would have gone on, but she stops him. 

‘‘ Listen to me,” says she, her voice vibrating with 
some hidden feeling. Let me speak. I am not 

going to marry Captain Adare. Be sure of that ” 

I am quite sure,” interrupts he insolently. 

“ Be silent !” cries she, flashing round suddenly 
upon him. Who are you, that you should even 
speak of him ! I tell you I shall not marry Captain 
Adare, nor any other man, until my father’s memory 
has been made clear. You alone can clear it, if in- 
deed” — here she pales perceptibly — you speak the 
truth.” She goes nearer to him — her eyes are burn- 
ing into his. “ Is it the truth, Brian ? A it ? Why 
don’t you answer ? Why don’t you speak ?” misera- 
bly. ‘‘You say you love me — and love means sacri- 
fice.” (Her heart contracts as she knows the sac- 
rifice that lies before her.) “And if you do know 
where [those dreadful jewels are, give them to Sir 
Lucien. Give them,” she throws out her hands to 
him in a little passion of entreaty, “ and so far at 
least prove that my poor father was not a thief I” 

“And so leave you free to marry Adare.” 

“ Oh, no ! oh, no ! I was not thinking of that.” 


'A LONELY MAID, 


171 

^‘If I did what you ask/' he has come very close 
to her, “ would you marry me ?" 

He waits, and waits — and still waits. Then she 
lifts her face ! God only knows what temptation she 
has passed through ! It would have been so simple 
a thing to promise, and then, when the jewels were 
restored, to refuse to fulfil her pledge. But when she 
lifts her face it is so white and lined with grief that 
he hardly knows it. Still, she has decided. 

“No !" says she, in a faint, sad tone. His nostrils 
dilate. 

“You say that with a face like death itself! Has 
his supposed love brought you to look like that? I 
tell you the time will come when you will be glad to 
cast all thoughts of him behind you, and marry me !" 

“ I shall never marry you," says she, firmly. 

They are both standing on the pathway, staring at 
each other, when a shadow falls between them. 
Amber’s eyes are still flashing as she raises them to 
see Sir Lucien. 


CHAPTER XX. 


“ The grey day’s ending followed the grey day — 
All grey together, ruin and air and sky, 

And a lone wind of memory whispering by.” 


Oh, yes, I think you will,'* says Sir Lucien, coming 
forward and addressing Amber. ‘‘ I am quite sure 
you will." He had only heard the last sentence of 
the conversation between Deane and Amber. 

I don't think so," coldly. 

“ When I tell you all the facts of the case," says 
Sir Lucien, still very agreeably, ‘‘ I am sure you will 
see your way to another answer. The fact is that — 
er" — he points to Deane very affably — ‘‘ your cousin 
here knows something about those lost stones of our 
house, that your poor mother was entrusted with in 

a weak moment, by my father — and " 

Pray spare yourself the trouble of going into it," 
says Amber, with a wonderful calm. She thanks God 
secretly that they cannot see her heart as it beats 
tumultuously beneath her bodice. ‘‘ I know all about 
it! Mr. Deane," with a glance at him from under 
haughty, half-closed lids that should have withered 
him, Mr. Deane knows where those jewels are, on 
which you have set your heart, and the price he sets 
on their delivery to you is — me. Well," turning 
172 


A LONELY MAW. 


173 


faintly upon them, with grief and tears and terror 
and reproach in her beautiful eyes, ‘‘ I am not for 
sale !” 

'‘You forget one point,'’ says Sir Lucien, his voice 
perfectly calm. " It is to clear your father’s memory 
that we desire this thing. If Mr. Deane can produce 
these gems, then the suspicion of your father’s having 
made away with them is at an end. If you marry 
this most estimable cousin of yours,” he makes a 
delicate indication towards Deane, “ he has sw — he 
— er — has promised to let me know where the stones 
are concealed. You see how the case lies.” He 
looks at her for the first time fully! "You will 
consent ?” 

" No,” says Amber, for the second time. Her tone 
is fuller now, however, and much stronger. 

" You refuser Sir Lucien’s face of affected suavity, 
now clouds into a sort of fury. " You refuse! who 
have been reported as so anxious for the clearing of 
your father’s memory in this matter.” 

" My father,” says the girl, clearly, " would not 
have had me clear his memory at the expense of my 
own happiness. He loved me too much for that. 
" You !” she lifts her eyes to Sir Lucien’s, " you, who 
have never loved anyone^ cannot, of course, under- 
stand this.” 

" Hypocrite!” cries Sir Lucien, furiously. " You, 
who have paraded your longing to see your father’s 
memory made sweet, now, when the chance comes to 
you, refuse to use it.” 

" I am no hypocrite,” says the girl, standing straight 
and firm before him. " I am no sycophant either. I 
15* 


174 


A LONELY MAID, 


feel*' — she turns and takes a step away from them — 

I shall be better at home. Brian/* looking back im- 
periously at Deane, go and bring the dog-cart for 
me as soon as you can.’* Sir Lucien is about to give 
a hasty consent to this order, when his glance happens 
to fall on Deane. The strange, forbidding, but hand- 
some face is dark with anger ; a stronger, more dan- 
gerous anger than even the girl’s refusal to marry 
him had called forth. As he looks the older man 
grasps the truth. Any insult to Amber — to the girl 
he loves, will be deeply, violently, resented by this 
strange, uncouth man. 

No, no,” exclaims Sir Lucien, with a gesture of 
his hands. “ I shall not allow you” — addressing Am- 
ber — my guest, my — niece ” 

Amber notices the hesitation, the reason for it, 
the swallowing of his pride, and the reason for that 
too, with a curl of her lip. Her mother— she too 
had been at times a little deceitful. How like the 
brother and sister are ! Poor old dad was not like 

that ; and yet ‘‘ I cannot allow j^ou — my niece,” 

Sir Lucien is saying, ‘‘ to leave my house before your 
visit has come to an end. There is no need for such 
violent temper on your part,” to Amber, who has 
from the first been singularly, courageously calm. 
But perhaps he had not liked that last curl of her 
beautiful lip. 

She is silent. War is raging within her — war be- 
tween love and pride. To g'o is to satisfy the latter. 
To stay is to satisfy her love ! Oh ! to be with him 
for even a few hours longer! To see him, to be 
near him, though never, never, can he be more to 


A LONELY MAID. 


175 


her than he is now. That he loves her, she knows. 
Her clear, sweet instinct has brought that home to 
her, though not a word has been said by him to her 
that she can dream upon. Nothing, except that kiss 
upon her hand last night. What magic lay in it! 
what wondrous charm ! she — she alone can tell. 
But so strong is she in her belief, that no shame 
lies in her calm and loving eyes as she acknowledges 
to her own heart that, as he loves her, so does she 
love him. 

And because of that sweet knowledge, and with 
its power full upon her, she wrestles with and over- 
comes her pride, and as all true lovers will — lets love 
stand triumphant ! 

As you wish,’' returns she, coldly, to Sir Lucien. 
‘‘ My visit, however, will be over in a very few days.” 

“ In the meantime,” says Sir Lucien, who is afraid 
of Deane’s frowning watchfulness, ” you will, I hope, 
understand that you are a very welcome guest within 
my doors.” 

She lifts her eyes to his for a moment, it is a little 
time, but his sink before hers ; then turning away from 
both men she is soon lost amongst the trees and 
bushes. 

A troublesome subject,” says Sir Lucien, shrug- 
ging his shoulders as she disappears, and turning to 
Deane, whose gaze is still fixed on the corner where 
the last inch or so of her gown had been seen. “ You 
have courage, my good Deane I Don’t you think so ? 

A regular — er — er You might make a better 

bargain with me perhaps, for” — he glances anxiously 
round him. If walls have ears, why not trees ? — “ for 


176 


A LONELY MAID. 


the possession of Well” — smiling palely — ^ we 

need not say it — eh !” But ” 

Her or nothing !” The answer comes clear and 
stern. Sir Lucien suppresses very cleverly an ex- 
pression of deep disgust. What devilish fools some 
men are, he tells himself, and all for the sake of a 
silly idiot of a woman who has two eyes like anyone 
else, and can’t have more than one nose ! With two 
noses one might make something out of her. Not a 
beauty perhaps — but an income ! 

‘‘You have given me your word that I can have 
the girl in exchange for the gems,” says Deane, who 
has been so long buying and selling in very shady 
circles in Australia that perhaps he has got lost a 
little about the buying and selling in honest Britain. 
“ That’s good enough for me. But it will take time 
and help!' He stops and looks hard at Sir Lucien. 
‘‘ You have sworn it, you know !” 

“ Yes ! I have sworn !” A dark flush mounts to 
Sir Lucien’s brow. Is it shame ? Is it the thought 
that of all his old house he alone has been the one 
to play traitor to its honourable records. 

“ It shall be as you will,” slowly — icily. 

“ As I will ! What the devil is the good of that ?” 
cries Deane, furiously. ‘‘ What about her? Can you 
compel her to my will ?” 

“ I think so.” Sir Lucien is quite himself again ; 
indeed the other’s passion has helped to restore him 
to his usual chilly frame of mind ! But, unfortu- 
nately, his calmness incenses the other. 

” What your damn meaning may be,” cries he, ‘‘ I 
don’t know. But ” 


A LONELY MAID. 


177 

I beg, dear Mr. Deane, that you will not give way 


This is too much Deane all at once loses complete 
control of himself. 

‘‘ Look here,'* says he, in a hoarse voice. You 
think yourself mighty smart, don’t you ? But I tell 
you that she’s in love with that nephew of yours, and 
that it will take you all your time to get her to marry 
me!” 

Sir Lucien stands silent. Of course the man is 
raving. But still 

^‘In love with Hilary?” says he at last. The 
question doesn’t mean anything really ; it is only put 
forward as a stop-gap, whilst he thinks. 

I don’t know what his confounded name is,” says 
Deane, sulkily, ” but I’m talking of your nephew, any- 
way.” 

‘‘ I am sure you are mistaken.” 

“ Are you ?” with a snarl. I’m not. You think 
you know a lot, don’t you ? I tell you she is in love 
with him, and” — he laughs a most devilish laugh- — 
‘‘ I tell you more, man, he is in love with her 1” 

Sir Lucien’s face grows livid. 

”No! No. Impossible. I have watched them. 
Impossible, I tell you 1 And even if it were true” — 
reading and answering the look in the other man’s 
face — “ I swear it shall come to nothing. His life — - 
his future — lies in my hand. Lies” — holding out 
his exquisitely shaped old hand and pointing to the 
hollow of the palm — ” here 1” 

His voice has fallen very low, but his eyes tell a 
good deal. They at all events convey to Deane the 


m 


178 


A LONELY MAID, 


certainty that if Adare should persist in his mad in- 
fatuation for Amber, Sir Lucien would cut him off 
with the proverbial shilling. 

“ I can see what you mean,'' says Deane, still in a 
very surly tone. And then, ‘‘ You will be at Madam’s 
dance ?" 

I don't think so," says Sir Lucien, who abhors 
Madam and all her works. 

‘'You had better be there," says the other, with a 
threatening air. “ I shall want your support, your 
countenance. YotCllhdM^ to keep an eye on the girl 

that night, whilst I " He takes a step nearer to Sir 

Lucien, and lays his hand upon his shoulder. “ A 
word, Adare." Sir Lucien winces at this familiarity. 
“ I" — lowering his voice — “ shall keep an eye on 
him. Then we shall compare notes, and know. One 
has only one pair of eyes, my good fellow. You'll 
help me ?" 

“ I am not a detective," says Sir Lucien, his nostrils 
dilating. 

“Aren't you ? You've posed as one very well up 
to this ; I think" — with a sneer — “ you had better 
keep up the part a little longer, until the stones are 
safely in your hands." 

“ You forget yourself, sir, when you speak to me 
like that," says Sir Lucien, his brows darkening. 
“ Go, sir. Go !" haughtily. 

“ Oh ! None of your damn rot," returns Deane, 
with a coarse laugh. “ Do you think you can dis- 
miss me now, with an uppish word or two ? Have 
you forgotten those letters of yours? You'll come 
to that dance, do you hear ? You spoke a moment 


A LONELY MAID. 


179 


ago of having your precious nephew in your hand. 
Well, as you hold him, so I hold you.'’ He spreads 
out his palm towards him. “Here! Just here!” 
says he, with a laugh of diabolical delight. 


CHAPTER XXL 


** One in whose gentle bosom I 
Could pour my secret heart of woes, 

Like the care-burthened honey-fly 
That hides his murmurs in the rose/* 

All maids are ‘‘perfect treasures/* as we knov/, 
but Dolly’s maid has beaten the record ; she has 
made a gown for Amber that is acknowledged, even 
by Dolly (who always keeps one foot upon her maid’s 
neck with a view to restraining her from getting up 
and demanding an increase of wages), to be a distinct 
success. It is indeed beautiful, and, if a simple frock 
can be so called, what must be the name for Amber ? 

She had found it hard to tear herself away from 
her glass, she had been so honestly and delightedly 
surprised with herself. She, who had never worn a 
pretty evening gown before, stood gazing at herself, 
with happy astonishment in her wide and smiling 
eyes. It is really she — herself. I’m afraid she was 
far from feeling as some heroines do, totally uncon- 
scious of her charms : a healthy, open vanity has 
taken possession of pretty Amber, and with it a great 
joy in the knowledge that she is looking “ nicer” 
than ever she looked before. She might have been 
gazing at the attractive mirror even now but for one 
thought that rings in her mind. What will he think 
i8o 


A LONELY MAID. 


l8l 


of her? Oh! hurry. Let her hurry. Where are 
her gloves, and her lovely fan that May would give 

her, and He will be in the library now with the 

others. 

So he is, and he and all the others fall into a little 
silence, as shyly — very shyly, and yet with an 
adorable look of conscious triumph in her shining 
eyes, she walks up the room. 

‘‘ My word says Dolly. It’s even better made 
than I thought. I’ll have to raise that girl’s wages. 
You’ll be the ruin of me. Amber.” 

You look lovely !” says May, in a low tone. 

“ Be proud !” says Dolly. ‘‘ Even your sex praise 
you. However” — with a glance round her — ‘‘it is 
only your own sex. The other What an ex- 

tremely awkward silence ! My dear Eustace” — with 
a malicious glance out of her very slightly painted 
eyes — “ can’t you see how lovely — that dress is ?” 

Everard looks at her curiously. What did she 
mean ? He makes her no reply, and soon they are 
all packed into the carriages and en route for Madame 
O’Flaherty’s. 

Madam receives them in an old red satin — that has 
seen so many better days that one trembles with fear 
at the thought that its final dissolution may take place 
at any moment — and really magnificent diamonds. 
On the topknot that usually distinguishes her a 
diamond pendant rests, nodding “ lightly o’er her 
brow,” and two of the three chins are decorated 
with strings of the same gems. 

“ What a dreadful dress !” says May to Mr, 
McGrath. 


i6 


i 82 


A LONELY MAID, 


'' Shows very nice feeling anyway/' returns that 
worthy, tribute to the late lamented. Just a few 
fragments left of the never-to-be-forgotten hour when 
she and he blended their young lives in one.” 

“Why” — indignantly — “it must be fifty years 
since she was married — and a wedding-gown ” 

“ That’s just it. That’s the beauty of it. For fifty 
long and happy years she has worn that beloved 
gown, in memory of that too — too happy day, 
when ” 

“ Nonsense,” says May, turning to lay her hand on 
Grey’s arm. 

“ I say ! Look here, aren’t you going to dance 
this with me ?” demands Owen. 

“ Certainly not.” 

“But I assure you. Grey” — turning to him — “she 
promised. . . .” 

“ How can you say that, Owen !” 

“ A little understanding somewhere surely : that 
night behind the hatstand you ” 

May, with a furious glance at him, turns, and she 
and Grey go towards the ball-room. 

“ I think,” says May, in a voice that actually 
trembles, “ that Owen is the most hateful person I 
ever met.” 

“You didn’t seem to think so the other night,” 
says Grey, stiffly. 

“ If you are going to be cruel to me too, Gil- 
bert ” The tremble grows accentuated. 

“ Cruel ! Who's cruel. I’d like to know. As for 
you . . . come in here.” He almost pulls her into 
a little semi-lighted room on his left. “ I can’t talk. 


A LONELY MAID, 183 

I can't think, I can't dance, I can't" — with a freezing 
air — “ even bear to look at you !" 

‘‘Oh! Gilbert!" 

“ Well, I can't. What with that fellow following 
you about, and you encouraging him. I declare 
there was a time when I actually was fond of that 
scoundrel — but now ! Look here" — frantically — 
“ let us make an end of it. Are you going to marry 
him ?" 

“ Marry him. Of course not," hotly. “ What do 
you take me for ?" 

“ Will you" — defiantly — “ marry me, then ?" 

Miss Adare regards him with a frowning air. 

‘‘ I must say you have taken a long time about 
it !" says she. 

Sir Lucien has elected to come later, in his own 
private brougham, a decision that was warmly en- 
couraged by his nearest and dearest. He has come 
very late Indeed — when supper is well on — but 
Madam, seeing him, swoops down upon him instantly. 
She is always beautifully unconscious of the fact that 
he detests her, and has indeed been often heard to 
say that she is sorry she can’t come over oftener to 
see poor Lucien and “ liven him up a bit ; he's such 
a dilluppy sort of person, don’t you know." By 
which, according to Amber, she means poor-spirited. 
Most of Madam’s speeches contain “ a bit." It is 
her stock phrase. 

“ So you’ve come. Better late than never !” cries 
she, with all the loud bonhomie that makes him hate 
her. “ Glad of it ! — shake you up a bit. Nothing 


A LONELY MAID, 


184 

for liver like a good shake. And Tm convinced 

you're liverish. Have you tried little " 

My liver/' interrupts Sir Lucien, with a stony 
glare that would have been effectual with anyone but 
Madam, ‘‘ is as it always was. Same size and shape, 
and in the same place, so far as I am permitted to 
judge. I tell you this to relieve your feelings, 
though I think the subject indecent. I should also 
like to inform you that I have not needed to try any 
remedies, big, or" — with a withering glance — ‘‘ little !" 

‘‘ So delighted," says Madam, jovially. “ 'Pon my 
word I began to fancy that yellow look in your eyes 
meant mischief!" Sir Lucien winces. He is not 
above his little vanities, and he has always been con- 
sidered a singularly handsome man. “ Well, and" — 
with a triumphant glance round her — ‘‘ what do you 
think of my little impromptu ?" The invitations had 
been short. 

“ Mixtures are, as I am sure you think, whole- 
some," says he, in his nastiest manner, and with a 
contemptuous glance at some of Madam's friends. 
Madam, however, is impervious to all such light 
sarcasm. She takes his remark in the happiest spirit. 

“ A compliment from you, my dear Lucien ! 
Really I hardly hoped for that, you old" — she 
makes a little lunge as though she would dig him in 
the ribs, but he avoids her — old misogynist I Look 
here, there's old Lady Kilburn over there, see her, 
in a brand new white satin gown ? Thinks she’s a 
debutante, though she's your age to a month. Go 
and ask her to dance the next set of lancers. Do 
now ! It’ll do you both good. Go. It will recon- 


A LONELY MAID, 


185 

cile her to the white satin, and for the liver there’s 
nothing like dancing. Bless me ! where has the 
man gone ? Lucien ! I say, Lucien ! Oh, no doubt, 
how good of him, gone to ask her.” Here Sir 
Lucien turns round and looks at her from a distant 
doorway with a scowl that penetrates even her three- 
fold armour. “ Heaven help us,” says she to herself. 
“ He’s even in worse health than I thought. He 
may say what he likes, but if taken in time those 

little Oh, Amber, my darling, here you are 

again, and looking lovely — lovely. Your cheeks like 
lilies blended with roses ! I hope you are taking 
care of her, Mr. Everard ?” 

I don’t know,” says Everard, who is looking very 
distinguished, and extremely quiet. “ You must ask 
Miss O’Connell for a character for me.” 

‘‘ It’s such a delightful dance,” says Amber, laying 
her hand on Madam’s arm, who lays her big fat one 
over the little slender clinging fingers, and taps them 
kindly, lovingly. ‘‘ Oh !” with a little sigh of deep- 
est content, “ I feel so happy !” 

“ Long may you so be !” says Madam, fervently. 
“ I see you brought Mrs. Know-Nothing with you.” 
(She had never forgiven Dolly.) “ A bad companion 
for a child like you. Don’t you think so, Mr. Ever- 
ard?” The latter is conscious of a sudden desire 
for mirth, but happily suppresses it. To appeal to 
him ! ‘‘ She may say what she likes about not 

knowing when her husband is coming home. In 
my opinion she knows right well he will never come 
home — until she has run away with somebody, and 
so made the coast clear.” 


i86 


A LONELY MAID. 


Oh, Madam ! No,’' cries Amber, horrified. 

She is the kindest, the prettiest woman. She is ” 

“ A mass of falsehood and frills ! There, go along, 
child. Don’t bother me about Mrs. Know-Nothing, 
but thank your God every night you are not such as 
she is.” 

She moves away abruptly to meet a tall woman, 
whom she is very anxious to cross-examine about 
her son’s recent somewhat hurried departure from 
his home to distant lands. 

Everard looks straight at Amber. 

‘‘ She doesn’t understand. She is prejudiced. 
Mrs. Clarence is as good a woman as exists,” says 
he, slowly. 

” How solemn !” Amber is laughing. “ As if I 
didn’t know it. Madam has always a fad of one sort 
or another.” 

Come into the library — a rest will do us both 
good,” says Everard, suddenly. A well of feeling 
such as he has never known before has sprung up 
within his breast. It is the one pure passion of his 
life. This child, so sure that all the world is good — 
so unsuspicious of evil, so ready to believe in the 
sweetness, the goodness of life, so ignorant of the 
evil. He had told her no actual lie, however, in his 
speech about Dolly. 

She hesitates. A fresh waltz has begun. But 
indeed (she has been dancing straight through the 
programme) a little rest would not be a bad thing. 

‘‘ Ah !” says he, ‘‘ I must lose you, I see. To me, 
who am so much older, those strains are not so 
seductive — a sad admission.” 


A LONELY MAID. 


187 


“ No, no,’^ quickly and sweetly. I was merely 
considering my partner. But really he is a stranger, 
and will not grieve very much for my loss. And I 
should quite like to sit with you in the library for a 
while. If he does find me there” — with a little 
laugh — ‘‘ of course I must go with him. But I hope 
he won’t. He is very big and very ugly.” 

They move away, unconscious that Madam’s eyes 
are following them. But Madam’s eyes are terrible 
things that roam about here, there, and everywhere, 
seeking whom they may devour. Her dislike to 
Mrs. Clarence is hardly a stronger feeling than that 
she entertains for Everard. And to see that ‘‘ dear 
innocent” with him. Well, anyway,” says Madam 
to herself, with inward consolation, “ it will make 
Mrs. Know-Nothing sit up a bit !” 

Turning, she finds herself face to face with Mrs. 
Know-Nothing, who is sitting on a lounge, with a 
big fan and a general air of almost insolent boredom. 

Hope you are enjoying yourself,” says Madam, 
with a malevolent smile and a snort. 

Oh, immensely ! Immensely !” responds Dolly, 
rapturously, making a great matter of stifling a yawn 
behind her fan. 

‘‘ You look it,” says Madam, tersely. Then, How’s 
your husband?” 

“ I don’t know,” says Dolly, with a beaming smile. 

Heard from him lately?” 

” I don’t know,” very prettily. 

'' You must know that, my good girl, at all events,” 
says Madam with an air of triumph. 

“ I don’t really,” says Dolly. ” He always directs 


i88 


A LONELY MAID, 


his letters to our place in Sutherland, and so of 
course — servants are so dilatory — I can’t tell you if he 
wrote last month, or the month before that — or any 
month.” 

“ Expecting him home ?” with increasing volume in 
the usually too loud tones. 

“ I don’t know.” Dolly pats the seat beside her 
with an air of eager bonhomie, ‘‘ Sit down, dear 
Madam, and let us talk about it ! You look very 
fatigued.” 

‘‘ In my opinion,” says Madam, with a burst of 
virtuous anger, he’ll never come home ! Never ! 
And small blame to him ! I say it again. He’ll 
7iever come home. You know that anyway.” 

“ I don’t, indeed,” says Dolly, with more truthful- 
ness than she usually betrays. It is to her extreme 
discontent that she knows her George is already on 
his homeward way. She raises her long glasses and 
surveys Madam with an air of surprised but placid 
inquiry. ‘‘ You haven’t heard he is dead, have 
you?” 

Madam, distinctly routed, makes a gesture of 
supreme disgust, and without trusting herself to say 
another word makes a martial stride past her, and 
seeing a window open that leads first to a balcony, 
and then to the gardens beneath, instinctively makes 
for it, with the idea, perhaps, of cooling her fevered 
brow. Really, all these Castle people are unfit to be 
known ! That shocking little woman inside would 
corrupt any decent society, and as for the man called 
Everard — she feels it almost her duty to follow him 
and Amber, and drag the dear girl away from him, 


A LONELY MAID. 


189 


by force, if necessary — but she has gone through far 
too much already. She has now entered the shrub- 
beries, and suddenly comes to a stand-still — her face 
a picture. 

Another of them ! Another of those depraved 
guests that Lucien has (ignorantly, of course, poor 
man) received beneath his decent roof! And Mrs. 
Know-Nothing’s brother, beyond doubt. Who is he 
with ? Ha 1 Madam, standing stiff as a setter that 
sees its snipe, and disdaining all idea of such mean- 
ness as would lead her behind a bush to listen — but 
listening with all her might just the same — knows 
that poor little Edie Bailey, the unhappy child,*' 
is in the claws of Owen McGrath. *Pon my con- 
science 1 She knew it 1 

He had been persecuting her all the evening ; 
she had watched them ; and what that silly old fool 
of a mother of hers was about when she let her 
daughter dance with a McGrath! Everyone knew 
what sort Lord Kilfern was, and — like father, like son. 

Mr. McGrath had, indeed, been making himself 
very conspicuous all the evening with little Miss 
Bailey, whose charms had first appealed to him at 
Madam’s tennis party. Madam had been responsible 
for a great deal. The innocent Edie’s mother, old 
and fat Mrs. Bailey, had noticed her daughter’s re- 
peated dances with one of the Carrig Castle people — 
she called it the Cawstle” — with beaming eyes, to 
Madam’s unspeakable contempt ; and, indeed, when 
she saw the pretty Edie disappearing through one 
of the windows with Mr. McGrath, had given her- 
self quite airs with the friends around her. 


190 


A LONEL Y MAID, 


Madam, standing rigid now in the very middle of 
the walk, is unhappily, though she does not know it 
and would have scorned subterfuge, as has been said, 
quite unseen by the two delinquents, sitting so close, 
very close together on the garden seat beneath the 
laurels. The little fairy lamps hanging round them 
are not as brilliant as they might have been, Mr. 
McGrath’s efforts to light a cigarette at five or six of 
them having had the effect of putting them out. 
The seventh had survived, and lit his cigarette, 
too. 

‘‘ Have one yourself,” he is saying now in tender 
tones to the attractive Edie. Madam grows cold 
with horror. Oh ! the profligate ! 

'' No, no,” cries Edie, evidently putting back some- 
thing, as there is a little rustle behind the laurels. 

‘‘Why not? Do, now,” coaxingly, from Mr. Mc- 
Grath. “ It’s ever so much nicer having a smoke 
with somebody. And your lips look as if they were 
made for ” (eloquent pause) “ a cigarette.” 

“ Oh, Mr. McGrath ! If mamma could only hear 
you.” 

“ Well, she can’t, you know,” says Mr. McGrath, 
cheerfully. “ And mammas aren’t much after all, are 
they? Though” — taking her hand in a sort of dream 
as it were — “ your mamma is one of the sweetest 
women I have ever known.” 

“ You really think so ?” Miss Bailey is evidently 
impressed by this description of her mother — a de- 
scription which certainly up to to-night had never 
suggested itself to her. 

“ I do, indeed. She” — fondly — “ is just like you !” 


A LONELY MAID, 


191 

Is she Miss Bailey smiles first, and then 
grows thoughtful. She has evidently found cause 
for inward reflection in his speech. 

“The very image,'' says Mr. McGrath, buoyantly. 
“ So kind, so beautiful. Surely, I have not been the 
first to call her, or you, beautiful ? You think she 
would object to your making yourself charming and 
sweet, and agreeable to — er — people ? Ah ! I know 
her better than you do. She'd love you to smoke a 
cigarette with me if she thought it would make me 
happy. Have one " 

Madam, quivering with rage, can see in her mind’s 
eye — a quite astonishing organ with her — that he is 
offering her his cigarette-case. 

“ Oh ! I couldn’t," says Miss Bailey, laughing and 
drawing back a little. “ I'm sure it would make me 
feel quite ill." 

“ Not it." 

“ It would. It would, indeed." Here Madam 
feels she must interfere. Does the increasing move- 
ment behind the laurels mean She has not 

time to continue the argument. 

“ It won’t." 

“ But" — hesitatingly — “ it might!' 

“ Even if it does," says Mr. McGrath, tenderly, 
“ I’ll hold your brow " 

This is too much for Madam. The pathetic, the 
truly Samaritan side of it does not suggest itself to 
her. 

“ Edie Bailey, come out of that," cries she, in sten- 
torian lungs. “ What do you mean by smoking 
cigarettes with " She pauses ; the rest of her 


192 • 


A LONELY MALD, 


sentence she knows now will be lost to the hearing 
of anyone. There is a mad stampede through the 
laurels, and even with her peroration on her lips, 
her audience is nil. 

** Ha says Madam ; ** if they think to escape me 
they make a great mistake. “ I’ll go in and see if 

they are dancing ; if not ” Her face conveys the 

fact that she will pursue them to the death ! In the 
meantime there are other people to be considered. 
She has not forgotten the fact that when last she 
saw Amber she was with Everard. 

Now she will go and warn /ter, the little Bailey girl 
being safe for a minute or so. But how to warn 
Amber, who is at times a little difficult ? She medi- 
tates; and then a bright thought comes to her. 
Hilary will be the very one to whom to tell her 
doubts. Of all the Carrig party, he alone is approved 
of by her. Yes, she will get Hilary to look after 
Amber. It is just when this thought has occurred to 
her that, as ill luck will have it, she meets Hilary. 

My dear boy, you !” says she. She had known 
him off and on since he was very young. The very 
one I wanted.” 

‘‘ Can’t you want me a little later. Madam ?” asks 
he smiling. ‘‘ I’m in a hurry now. I’m looking for 
your favourite. Amber.” 

Ah ! Tltafs my want !” says she. So you don’t 
know where she is then ?” 

No.” A sense of fear lays a cold hand upon his 
heart. 

“ She went to sit out the last dance with Everard,” 
says Madam. ‘‘That I I^noiv ; I’d be glad, my dear 


A LONELY MAID. 


193 


Hilary, if you could find her, and prevent her from 
sitting out the next with him. But from what I could 
see, I " 

She says a good deal more, but Hilary does not 
hear her. He has gone back to the house. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


“ For till the thunder in the trumpet be, 

Soul may divide from body, but not we 
One from another.’* 

The light is dim as he enters the library. He had 
searched many rooms before finding her here. Now 
he can see her, sitting in a big soft chair, close to 
Everard, who, in a chair of a harder make, is leaning 
forward his elbows on his knees, evidently in earnest 
conversation with her. Through the half dim light 
Amber’s beauty, so soft, so kindly, shines like a star. 
Her pale and charming frock looks like the garment 
of an angel, and her hair, with the little curling 
feathers in it, like burnished gold. 

The very exquisiteness of her only serves to raise 
higher the rage that is burning in Hilary’s heart. 

He walks straight up to her. 

“Our dance, I think.” His tone is so abrupt — 
so almost choked — that the girl looks up at him very 
suddenly. 

“Ours? Is it?” She rises. “You must tell me 
the rest another time, Mr. Everard,” says she over 
her shoulder. 

Adare leads her, not to the ball-room, but through 
the hall to the balcony by which he had just entered 
the house in search of her. 

194 


A LONELY MAID. 


195 


What is it ?** asks she, a little nervously, alarmed 
by his silence, his rapid movements (he had almost 
carried her along with him), his whole air. 

“ What should it be ?'" He has stopped at the end 
of the balcony, where the shadows are thicker. 

“ Nothing, I suppose,’’ plucking up a little spirit, 
only your manner is so strange, so abrupt. And I 
thought your voice sounded angry just now. But” 
— laughing anxiously, tentatively, as if feeling its 
way — ‘‘ I think I only fancied it.” 

No doubt.” He leaves her abruptly, and going 
to the railing of the balcony, crosses his arms on it. 

He is struggling with a mad passion of jealousy 
and despair. If this one woman will not love him, 
what can all his life be to him from this day forth ? 
What good, what joy, what comfort can it contain ? 
Oh ! and more than that, can he even live without 
her ? 

The quick sound of her feet behind him checks 
his thoughts. He turns to her a frowning face. 

“ Ah ! don’t look at me like that !” says Amber. 
‘‘ Don’t look — but tell me.” A little gentle hand is 
now slipped into his. Tell me what I have done !” 

Was ever girl like this one ? Oh ! the sweetness, 
the grace of her, and the little hand so generously 
thrust into his own ! 

'' Don’t you know ? Can’t you guess ?” cries he, 
in a stifled tone, what I felt when I saw you there 
in that dark room with” — violently — that cursed 
fellow.” 

“ No,” says she, in a low tone. She draws back 
involuntarily, as if frightened by his manner. Why 


196 


A LONELY MAID. 


do you speak of him like that? Why should I not 
be with him ? I like him ; he is always very kind to 
me. Of course I always felt you did not quite like 
him, but 

“ I despise him,'' begins he, sharply, fiercely, then 
checks himself. After all, what is he to say? How 
explain to her that Everard's reputation is not all it 
ought to be ? Come down," says he, hoarsely, point- 
ing to the gardens beneath, “ I can't talk to you 
here." 

And, indeed, the dance being over, many merry 
couples come pouring through the windows on to 
this particular balcony. He makes a slight gesture 
and she runs down the steps, he following, and so 
into one of the many walks beyond. 

‘‘ Let us stop here," says he, when they have come 
to a clump of evergreens that hides them effectually 
from any passer-by. His heart is still hot within 
him, and his voice sounds to her stern and harsh. 
Such a tone from Brian Deane would have been met 
by cold anger on her part, but from Hilary ! I must 
speak to you." 

‘‘ Oh ! but not in that voice." She lays her hand 
gently on his arm. “ You have been so good to me 
always that — that you will have to go on being good. 
And really, Hilary," — raising her sweet eyes to his 
with the sweetest friendship in them — ‘‘ if I had known 
that you did not wish me to sit out a dance with him. 

. . . He said he was tired, you know." (Adare 
smothers a very unpleasant word.) And I was a 
little tired too. And so, but" — shaking her lovely 
head, eagerly — " it wouldn't have given me a bit of 


A LONELY MAID, 


197 


trouble to refuse him, because I am sure Owen” — 
she has learned to call Mr. McGrath by his Christian 
name — “or Mr. Grey, would have been kind enough 
to sit out the dance with me too !” 

“ Or even I,” says Adare, in a low and bitter 
tone. 

“ Well, or you,” prettily. “ But then Madam de- 
pends so much on you. I saw how she kept you 
going all the night with this and that, and every- 
thing. And so of course I should not have dreamed 
of bothering you.” 

“ Is that how you look at it ?” says he. 

She nods delicately, and then, “ You are not angry 
with me any longer, are yon ? And if you don’t like 
it, I shall sit out no more dances with Mr. Everard, 
as you say you do not like him. Though why . , . 
Any one else will do quite as well when I feel tired. 

Owen or You” — with an anxious glance — “ don’t 

dislike Owen, do you ?” 

Adare meets this poser very badly. A frown 
gathers on his forehead, doubt contracts his heart. Is 
this slim, exquisite creature, with eyes like the stars 
above them, and with such lips as speak of purity 
alone, a mere coquette, a trifler of the first water ? 

The old distrust is now full upon him. Is she — is 

she honest ? Her mother And then comes the 

revulsion of feeling, the longing to kill himself for 
his disbelief in her. Oh ! no, no. Such eyes as 
those could not play false with any man.” 

“ No,” slowly, “ I do not dislike Owen.” 

“ You like him then ?” a little persistently. 

“ I like, and” — meaningly — “ trust him.” 

17-K 


198 


A LONELY MAID, 


‘‘ Ah !** She pauses. Then, slowly, ‘‘ The one 
you don’t trust is me !” 

There is something so calm, yet so poignant in her 
tone, that all at once he forgets his own injuries, and 
gives his mind to hers — a fact that proves him indeed 
her lover. 

“You! What are you saying. Amber? To dis- 
trust you 1” His tone is indignant, yet what has he 
been doing for the past half-hour ? 

“ Well, you do,” says the girl, softly, but miserably. 
“ I don’t blame you, you know. Anyone would. 
You find fault with me now for every little thing, but 
it would not occur to you to treat me so, if those 

missing jewels were not in question. I have ” 

“ Amber r 

“ I don't care 1” She sighs and turns away from 
him, and her beautiful mouth quivers for a mo- 
ment. A moment only. “ When you saw those 
rings ” 

“ What do you mean by that ?” interrupts he, 
passionately. “Would you have had me keep 
silence then? That would have been to play the 
part of a coward.. A coward to you and to myself.” 

“ I know,” faintly. 

“ You would not have withheld the truth ?’” 

No, no, but it isn’t that. I am not thinking of 
that. It is only — that now, to-night — you have 
distrusted me. You will distrust me always.” Her 
voice is low and anguished. 

'' Never r says he. “What is it? What have I 
said ? I have hurt you ” 

“Oh! you have r cried she. “You have brought 


A LONELY MAID, 


199 

it all back! You think of me as one dishonest — 
as But I never knew about those rings 

‘‘Amber! how dare you say such a thing as 
that !’' Suddenly in his grief and despair all things 
are cast aside and she is in his arms, her cheek 
pressed against his own, his heart beating madly 
against hers ! 

“ My darling ! my own ! — Amber ! Oh ! it is folly 
to tell you I love you. You know — you must 
know.” 

“ Yes, yes. But you must not love me.” This is 
dreadful ; but he takes courage from the fact, that as 
she gives sound to this awful sentence, her arms 
tighten round him. He passes it over very lightly 
indeed. 

“ I’m not worth thinking about,” says he. “ But 
do you love me, my sweetheart ?” 

“ A long pause. He can feel she is bracing her- 
self for a tremendous effort. 

“ No !” says she, in a tone that she fondly hopes is 
heroic, but is only tearful. 

“Oh! Amber! and here.” He tightens his arms 
round her. “ To say that here.” 

“ It was a lie,” cries poor Amber, giving in miser- 
ably. “ But how can I love you, or let you love me, 
with this stain on my father’s name ?” 

“ Nonsense ! if that is all,” jubilantly. 

“ It is all,” solemnly. “ But — no — let mp stand 
away from you. But — it means everything. I shall 
not let you love me until my father’s memory is 
cleared.” 

“ Why, think, darling,” cries he, still holding her 


200 


A LONELY MAID, 


hands, as he cannot hold herself. Who believes in 
that absurd story of the missing jewels, except our 
mad old uncle. Sir Lucien ?’' 

“ And Brian Deane !’' 

‘‘ I don’t believe he knows anything. I don’t, 
really. He has only been working on Sir Lucien’s 
nerves, first, perhaps, with a view to making money 
out of him, and latterly to get him to forward his 
marriage with you. You T He stops as if over- 
whelmed, as if words fail him to express his anger 
and contempt at the presumption of Brian Deane. 

Still, Hilary” — she pauses, and pushes him a 
little further from her — still — I” — her voice grows 
strangled — ‘‘ I cannot marry you. Don’t” — turning 
to him, and holding out her arms afresh — arms swiftly 
caught and held — don't think me cold, or heartless, 
because” — sobbing and clinging to him — ‘‘ I do love 
you, I do, I do.” 

My own darling girl !” 

Only — to marry you ! With such a cloud as this 
shame hanging over me — the ‘ only wedding orna- 
ment,’ as” — crying bitterly now — “ Brian said, I 
had to wear round my neck. Oh ! no. I couldn't !" 

Look here,” says Adare, whose face is very white. 
‘‘ I’ll shoot that devil if he ever dares to insult you 
again.” 

‘'Oh, Hilary! Don’t say things like that. Don’t 
let us speak of him at all.” 

“ He is not worth it, heaven knows. Let us” — 
with a quick smile — “talk of ourselves instead. You 
are mine now, you arc mine^ Amber ! Say that.” 

“ No, no,” falteringly. 


A LONELY MAID, 


201 


*‘You are, anyway. You” — steadily — ‘‘may as 
well make up your mind to it. Here” — smiling and 
pushing her from him at arm’s length, but holding 
her hands very tightly all the same — “ stands my 
affianced bride! That’s like the good old penny 
dreadful, isn’t it?” 

They both laugh, she a little faintly. 

“You won’t tell anyone about it, will you?” she 
entreats, and then, seeing rebellion in his face, “ You 
will promise that, you must. You will promise 
faithfully to tell no one.” 

“ I don’t think I can. At least” — smiling at her 
perturbed face — “ not faithfully. I want to tell Sir 
Lucien for one.” 

“ Oh 1 not Sir Lucien.” 

“ He first 1 I could not” — drawing his breath 
sharply — stand the idea of hiding our engagement 
from him of all people.” There is so much loyalty 
towards her in this eager desire to tell the man who 
has been so unjust to her all along, of his own admira- 
tion and love for her, that Amber’s eyes grow full of 
tears, half sad, half happy. Oh ! if only things had 
been different 1 

“ He” — miserably — “ will disinherit you.” 

“ Let him 1 I’ve a thousand a year of my own, 
left me by my poor mother. We can pull along 
very well on that. Can go out to India, and live 
happy ever after.” 

“You would give up all Sir Lucien’s immense 
wealth !” She turns upon him with flashing eyes. 
“ And for me ! No, no ! Do you think for one 
moment I would hear of such a thing ? I take back 


202 


A LONELY MAID, 


every word I have said. I won't be engaged to you, 
Hilary. No, not in any way. You may think I 
don’t mean it, but I do.” 

** Will you take back, ‘ I love you* ?” 

‘‘Yes, certainly. I never meant it. It” — with a 
little stamp of her foot — “ was a mere folly. Of 
course I don’t love you.” 

So firm, so determined is her whole air, so fierce is 
the stamp of her foot, that in spite of his effort to 
control himself, Hilary bursts into a roar of laughter. 
He is horrified at himself, but cannot control his 
amusement, and indeed it stands him in good stead. 
If he had talked to her sensibly for half a day, not 
one of his wise arguments would so have convinced 
her of his determination to have and to hold her as 
this irrepressible burst of laughter does. 

“ Forgive me,” says he, at last. 

“ Oh ! you can laugh if you like. But I mean it.” 
Her tone, however, is a little feeble. 

“ Not you,” says he, comfortably. “ And even if 
you did,” — drawing her tenderly to him, and press- 
ing her sweet and lovely head against his shoulder — 
“ it would be of no use. I have given myself to you. 

And you have given yourself to me, and ” He 

pauses. “ Well, that’s all,” says he. And so it seems 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


“ There is a feverish famine in my veins.” 


She has, however, extracted from him a promise 
not to tell Sir Lucien until she has left Carrig, which 
will be the day after to-morrow — during their return 
to the house. A promise reluctantly given — and 
remembered as reluctantly afterwards ! 

Almost as they reach the yellow rays of light that 
lie across the paths beneath the windows, two men 
coming out of the shadows approach them — Sir 
Lucien and Brian Deane. 

‘‘ Have you nothing better to do, Hilary,” says 
Sir Lucien in a clear tone, subdued, but full of un- 
governable temper, “ than to walk about the garden 
all night with — Miss O’Connell ?” 

Miss O’Connell ! The insult is deliberate. 

‘‘ I have been with my cousin and your niece 
says Adare, slowly and defiantly, and with a good 
deal of accentuation. 

‘‘ You have been with the girl who is to marry Mr. 
Deane!” says Sir Lucien. He turns and beckons 
Deane forward. “ See to it. See to it,” cries he, 
furiously. A very madness has entered into him. 
If the girl will not marry Deane, then the bargain 
between him and Deane falls to the ground, and 

203 


204 


A LONELY MAID, 


the jewels will never be his. Oh ! what is the worth 
of a silly girPs happiness, in comparison with the 
possession of those priceless stones ? 

Deane has come forward. His face is livid as he 
meets Adare. Involuntarily he thrust his hand into 
his left side, beneath his coat. No doubt in the land 
he had just come from, revolvers at times are handy 
little things. Without a revolver, Adare’s set and 
stern face is distinctly disagreeable. Out of the 
darkness that surrounds all this, a girl’s voice rings 
clearly — 

I am not going to marry Mr. Deane !” 

‘‘ It is Amber. It thrills through Adare. But why 
did she not say she was going to marry him ? It 
would have eased so much of the tension. His 
promise to her alone holds him back from speaking 
aloud just now. 

‘‘ Pardon me! You must, I think. Your father’s 
name and the disgrace attached to it will prevent 
your ” 

“ Why should she remember her father’s name ?” 
breaks in Adare, violently. ‘‘ Her father’s name so 
far has no stain upon it, save what his” — with a 
contemptuous and lengthened glance at Deane — 
‘‘ his relation has chosen to cast there. As for my 
cousin” — looking at Amber — she tells me she is 
not engaged to Mr. Deane.” 

‘‘ She seems to be very communicative with you.” 
Sir Lucien’s voice is now vindictive. ‘‘ May I ask” 
— slowly — ‘‘ if she is engaged to you T* 

A pause. 

Adare at this juncture would have made a decla- 


A LONELY MAID, 


205 


ration of his engagement to Amber, in spite of that 
promise he had given her only a few minutes before. 
But looking at her, as if to command her permission 
to speak, the anguished look in her eyes forbids him 
to go further. He is about then to answer Sir Lucien 
in some slight trivial way, though his heart is on fire, 
when Deane breaks the silence. Passing suddenly 
by Sir Lucien, he comes close to Amber. 

Give me five minutes.*’ 

Adare, who is standing beside Amber, pushes him 
unceremoniously aside. Not one,” says he, in a 
voice of concentrated fury. 

Yes, one^ says Amber. 

She lays her hand on Hilary’s sleeve, and looks at 
him. ‘‘Just one!' Her voice is a mere whisper 
heard by him alone. “ It will be better. It will be 
— the end!' Then she turns to Brian. 

“ If you wish to speak to me,” says she, “ I am 
very ready to hear you. Will you come this way ? 
It is very quiet in the garden.” 

5|c :|c * sK * * 

“ Well !” demands she, facing him. She feels quite 
safe and full of courage. Some instinct tells her that 
Hilary, who had so reluctantly obeyed her wish, is 
still somewhere near, out of sight and hearing, but 
where a sound from her would reach him. 

“Well,” repeats he. “Is it well iox yon? You 
think you are going to marry that fellow, Adare. 
You still think he will prove true to you, when he 
knows that if he does marry you, his uncle will dis- 
inherit him ?” 

18 


2o6 


A LONELY MAID, 


“ I don’t think it/’ says she, in a clear, intense 
voice, ‘‘ I know it.” 

“ I defy you to know it !” his breath coming more 
quickly. “ Until to-night, although I have warned 
him of it. Sir Lucien never quite believed that his 
nephew” — with a contemptuous intonation — '^conde- 
scended to admire you !” 

‘‘ Still, I know it,” repeats she, coldly. And as 
for Captain Adare’s not knowing that his uncle 
would probably disinherit him if he married me, I 
told him so myself But I need not have done so; 
he had quite made up his mind about it.” 

‘‘Ah!” — furiously — “then you have promised to 
marry him.” 

“ No.” Even in this dim light he can see the sad 
and grievous expression that clouds her face. “ I 
have refused him.” 

“ Refused him !” Deane stands back from her, 
amazed, incredulous. “ This is a trick,” cries he, 
violently. 

“ Cannot you see'' cries she, turning upon him in 
a passion of pain and grief, “ that I could not marry 
him ? I love him.” She presses her hands as if in 
pain upon her breast. “ I love him ; but with this 
stain upon my father’s memory, I shall never marry 
him.” 

“ You mean” — he stoops as if in the gloom to 
get a surer view of her face — “ that until those 
jewels are restored, you ” 

“ Until then,” faintly. 

“You mean” — persistently — “that if those jewels 
are never found you will not marry Adare.” 


A LONELY MAID, 


207 


‘‘Yes, I have told him so” — she sighs heavily. 
Deane breaks into a sudden insolent laugh and then 
as suddenly grows silent. Something in the very 
calm of Amber’s manner has at last convinced him, 
that any hope he has entertained of making her his 
is at an end. But he can at all events prevent her 
from ever being Adare’s ! The day after to-morrow 
he will leave ; and catching the boat on Thursday 
next, be out of the country before Sir Lucien is even 
aware of his having left the Mill House. And even 
if pursued, what chance of convicting him of having 
anything to do personally with those stones ? No, 
he has arranged a plan too good for most detectives. 
A man of quick resolves, he now makes up his mind 
in an instant on a matter that might have taken other 
men many an hour to decide upon. 

“ Not him or any other man,” says she, slowly. 
That laugh of his angered her. There had been 
distrust of Adare in it. 

‘‘ That lies in the future,” retorts he. “ As for me, 
I have not mentioned it before, but Esther and I start 
for Australia shortly. This is a secret I know I can 
trust you with. It lies with you now to either come 
with us or stay here — here, where you are treated 
with contempt, and despised, and where, if you are 
in earnest about your refusal to marry Adare until 
your father’s memory is cleared, you will find your- 
self deserted and alone. For” — with a strange 
glance, menacing, yet appealing — “ that will never 
happen ! Those jewels Sir Lucien has set his soul 
upon, will never fall into his hands !” 

” You only convince me that you know something 


2o8 


A LONELY MAID. 


of them/^ says she, in a low clear tone. I feel’*— 
her eyes bent piercingly on his — it is useless to 
appeal to you, but, if you do know where those 
jewels are^ hear me ! I swear I will not marry Hilary, 
or any man — that I will die unmarried — if only you 
will clear my father’s name? Is that not bribe 
enough ?” 

“ Ha ! you have come so far as that,” says he. 
‘‘Well! you must go further. Swear you will marry 
me, and ” 

She turns abruptly away, as if despising him too 
much to answer. 

“Just as you will,” he mutters, sullenly. “How- 
ever, a last word. If at any hour you elect to come 
out to us — and I believe Adare will fling you aside 
when he knows positively what his marriage with 
you will mean to him — then, you will receive from 
me a cordial welcome. Bear that in mind, my girl. 
It is worth a thought ! And — another thing — if you 
agree to cast in your lot with us, you need not think 
that it must necessarily lead to marriage with me. 
No I By heaven, no 1” His strange, wild face looks 
tragically, honestly earnest at the moment. “You 
shall be free to choose betwixt me and many 
another; to ” 

“You have not left me free this time,” says she 
with a faint smile. “ But if you are really going, 
Brian, good-bye. We are not likely to meet again.” 

“ You forget — you are coming home to-morrow.” 

“ No, I had not forgotten. But to-night Madam 
asked me to go and stay with her for a week — 
and ” 


A LONELY MAID, 


209 


Ah !’* cries he, fiercely, with the fierceness of 
acute mental agony. “You are dwelling on the 
thought that this is our last meeting. You hope for 
that ! But” — in a choking voice — “ it is not our last 
meeting ; in spite of you, I shall see you again ” 

“ It would not be in spite of me, Brian,” says she, 
very softly and kindly, touched by the certain misery 
of his whole air. ‘‘ I only thought it would be for 
the best for you and me not to meet again. But if 
you wish to bid me another, more open farewell, I 
shall be glad to see you at Madam’s.” 

“ Let that rest,” says he, roughly, making a ges- 
ture as if pushing something aside. “ What I want 
to know is, what you are going to do when I am 
gone. Madam” — with a glance at her — “ will go, 
too ! And you ! Are you going to live alone in 
that old house ?” 

“ I have lived alone the greater part of my life,” 
Her voice is very sad and forlorn. “ I shall not mind 
the loneliness.” 

“You lie!” cries he, fiercely. “You will not live 

alone, even if you do not marry him — you ” His 

voice fails him. Something in the unmistakable sur- 
prise — the open want of understanding in the girl’s 
eyes makes him feel dumb before her. 

“ Certainly, I shall not live alone in one sense,” says 
she, with a dignity that is blended with astonishment, 
as to the meaning of his late outburst. “ I have had 
no time to think of it yet; as I had no idea Esther 
would go back with you this time. But I am sure 
old Mrs. Blake and her daughter — ^you know how 
poor they are, and how respectable — would come up 


210 


A LONELY MAID, 


and take care of me and the house. They are quite 
nice people, and will not trouble me at all, and I 
think it will be a help to them. So you see'' — with 
a rather haughty, if distinctly puzzled glance (for 
what on earth had he meant ?) — you need not be 
at all uneasy about me." 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


“ That practis’d falsehood under saintly show.’* 


‘‘ Do you know/' says Mr. McGrath, glancing por- 
tentously at May, who is lying in a charming, but 
somewhat languid manner in a lounging chair, '' I 
have always been given to understand that our Irish 
brothers and sisters were famed for their modesty." 

‘‘ Well, what's the matter with them now ?" de- 
mands that pretty little person, “ and why do you 
look at me T' 

It is quite ten o'clock, and though they have been 
telling each other that they are " quite worn out," 
and ‘‘tired to death," and positively unable to keep 
their eyes open after Madam's dance of the night 
before, still they are all here in the drawing-room, 
discussing over and over again the events of last 
night. 

‘‘ On this occasion only^' says Mr. McGrath, who 
can see that Grey is already seething with rage, ‘‘ I 
am not alluding to you, my lovely May !" Here 
Grey looks murderous. “ I am indeed alluding to 
quite an elderly person. I can only pray, my dear 
girl, that as years go on you will not arrive at her 
frame of mind — but it will take a very strong man, in 
my opinion, to keep you in the path that " 


211 


212 


A LONELY MAID. 


** What on earth is the matter with you, Owen 
breaks in Dolly, irritably. She objects to a row, and 
she can see by Gilbert Grey's eyes that it is brewing. 
Can’t you say what you mean ? Wko has been 
doing something amusing — I mean improper ?” 

'' I don’t quite like to mention names,” says Mr. 
McGrath, with a modest simper, “ but really last 
night things were said to me that made me blush. 
For one, Mrs. Bailey — know Mrs. Bailey?” looking 
around him appealingly. “ Very, verj^ big woman — 
I — er — I kad to listen.’” 

“ Owen,” says his sister, with severity, “ I forbid 
you to go on. Anything that brought a blush to 
your cheek Well ! It ought to be untranslata- 

ble at all events !” 

Still I think I had better tell you,” says Owen, 
with all the air of one who feels oppressed by a sense 
of responsibility, if only to put you on your guard 
and to get up amongst us a little crusade (you know 
these little crusades are so popular now — one always 
sees one’s own name in print about them) to take 
her dear girl out of her hands.” 

‘‘ What nonsense, Owen !” Mrs. Clarence has sat 
up, however, and the others have all followed her 
example. “ What has that dreadful old Mrs. Bailey 
done — or said ?” 

‘‘You may well ask. She had the audacity to tell 
me that her eldest girl — (my little girl’s sister, you 
know, she called her “ my sweet Cawtherine) — was 
presented in Dublin last year, and ” 

“ Owen ! I protest,” cries his sister, faintly. 

“ Well, am I to give my warning, or am I not ?” 


A LONELY MAID, 


213 


demands Mr. McGrath making a really touching 
appeal to those around him, but, very sensibly, does 
not wait for their verdict. All I can say is that 
Mrs. Bailey, when I was sitting near her, said — I 
think she was looking at Madam’s diamonds — ‘ Well, 
give me simplicity. When my darling Cawtherine 
was presented in Dublin, to His Excellency, she wore 
nothing on earth but a string of her grandmother’s 
pearls around her neck.^ 

Owen,” says his sister, in a terrible voice. 

‘‘ Your tone does not surprise me. I was greatly 
shocked myself. ‘ Nothing more?' I asked. ‘ Not a 
ha’porth, me dear,’ said she. ‘ To tell you the gospel 
truth, Mr. McGrath, she was mad, poor darling, to 
put on something movQy but I stood firm ! ** Nature or 
nothing!” I said.’ ” Mr. McGrath looks sadly round 
him. ‘‘ She did really,” he says. ‘‘ Wasn’t it 
awful ?” 

‘‘/know who is awful,” says May, with a glance 
at him from under her half-closed lids. Perhaps she 
means to be indignant, but unfortunately her voice 
shakes. 

“ Funny story for her to tell, wasn’t it ?” says Owen, 
thoughtfully. “ And of her own daughter, too. After 
all, I begin to think now, judging by other events, that 
perhaps she is more to be pitied than blamed. It 
has occurred to me that (though I felt it my duty to 
warn you against her), that perhaps I made a mistake. 
The poor creature may not be so much bad, as mad ! 
The change of one letter only, dear May, but ‘ Oh ! 
the difference to me 1’ ” 

“ I don’t believe you’d see it,” says Hilary. 


214 


A LONELY MAID, 


'' But how mad, Owen ?’' asks Mrs. Clarence, who 
is always on the qui vive for gossip of any sort. 

Well, I don’t know how it will strike you ,"' — but 
as I stood beside her, suffering in silence, and trying 
to believe she did not quite mean what she said about 
her daughter’s costume at her presentation, she said, 
‘ Isn’t Madam grand, to-night ? Look at her chins ! 
She’s always like that when she’s got up for the 
evening. But no wonder when she’s got the Riviera 
on her.’ ” 

‘‘ The whatr 

Yes. The whole Riviera. A big place, you know. 
I shouldn’t have thought even Madam (and she is, 
thank heaven, one in a thousand) could hold it up. 
According to Mrs. Bailey, Atlas isn’t in it with her ! 
I felt startled, and looked round for a crushed Madam, 
but there she was at the end of the room (looking 
sunbeams at Sir Lucien, who was looking thunder- 
clouds at her) as large as life, and as ugly as ever.” 

‘‘ She meant a riviere, of course,” puts in May, im- 
patiently. 

‘‘ Ah ! how clever you are,” says Owen, sadly. 

Now that never occurred to me, and so perhaps the 
poor, dear woman is not so very mad after all. A 
riviere ! I declare, now I think of it, perhaps she did 
mean that. But why can’t people speak English 
when they can’t speak other things ? Tiara would 
have been good enough for the likes of me. These 
foreign languages are very confusing !” 

Is tiara English ?” says Dolly. Owen, go and 
play billiards with May and Gilbert, if” — with a swift 
smile at Gilbert — ” three will not be trumpery.” 


A LONELY MAID. 


215 


May’s engagement has leaked out, and is now 
known to all the household. Sir Lucien, who has 
something to do with it, the engagement coming ofif 
in his house, had countenanced it in his own ungra- 
cious way. 

“ Grey ! Gilbert Grey ! So she’s going to marry 
that idiot ! Well, it’s for her father to speak of it, 
but I wish to the deuce she wouldn’t call him Gilby ! 

Sounds like that confounded Why can’t she 

call him by his decent name, as any other Christian 
might ?” Thus he snarled over it. 

‘‘ Oh, no, no billiards to-night, I’m too tired,” says 
May. ‘‘ I’d much rather, if I had to do anything, go 
up and see the stars from the tower ; you know it is 
the night.” 

As you will,” says Dolly, languidly. She makes 
a little artistic pretence at stretching her pretty arms, 
and, rising, saunters to the window. It is a deep 
window, enveloped by curtains — crimson, silken. 
They fall together, hiding her as she goes through 
them. Outside on the balcony, as she knows, Ever- 
ard is smoking. Seeing her, he pauses in his saunter 
to and fro, and comes to her. 

‘‘So you have fallen in love with the charming 
Amber,” says she all at once, as he comes up to her 
— without preliminary of any sort. 

A sense of confusion is shown only in his stopping 
short, and flicking off the ash of his cigar with con- 
siderably more caution than usual. 

“ My dear Dolly ! What utter rot !” No one is 
here to listen, so he can speak to her in the ordinary 
terms we all use at times, with those intimate with 


2i6 


A LONELY MAID, 


US. In print it sounds vulgar, but in reality it is — 
well, it is real. 

She subdues the mockery that is in her smile. 
‘‘ Still you are a little epris^ eh ?’' She knows it will 
not serve her design to drive him too far — to compel 
him to declare his passion for Amber ! 

Ah ! that’s better,” says he. ‘‘ Love is a strong 
word. I confess I think her pretty.” 

‘‘ That is a weak word. She’s lovely !” She de- 
cides on giving him a little goad. ” I’d go even 
further if necessary, but I see you do not follow me. 
But why then do you make such silent love to her ? 
To tease Hilary ? Oh ! I know there is not much 
love lost between you two.” 

‘‘ To tease Hilary !” He repeats her words. “ You” 
—gazing at her scrutinizingly — ‘‘ have guessed it 
then ?” 

She laughs — the easiest, merriest little laugh. In 
truth she can laugh. Victory comes her way. 

‘‘Why not? S7ick a friend as I am — of yours. 
But if you have a grudge against Hilary, why not 
put it to the test ? He, I know^ loves Amber, and 
you ” She laughs again. 

“ How ?” says he. 

“Ah! how dull a man can be! Have you for- 
gotten that some stars in their courses may be fight- 
ing for you, and your revenge, this very night. Have 
you seen the papers? The Cork Constitution says 
to-night there will be a brilliant display in the 
heavens. Ask her to go up and see it — at mid- 
night.” Her merriment conceals the touch of con- 
tempt in her tone. The charm of the night — with 


A LONELY MAW. 


217 


the charm of the stars and Amber thrown in — ought 
to bring matters to a climax ! 

You tell me to do this !” He is looking at her. 
It is an old look well known, but now with a chill in 
it. It hardens her to her task. To get rid of him, 
to push him out of her life before the return of 
Colonel Clarence is now her principal desire. There 
had been, as has been already said, some passages 
between them — not so very much — but yet enough 
to make her world talk, and to put him behind her, 
as it were, before Clarence’s return is the dominant 
thought in Dolly’s frivolous but distinctly careful 
mind. His present open, if unspoken, admiration of 
another woman has given her the necessary impetus 
for the accomplishment of this desire; not that she 
wanted any sustained effort for it. ‘‘All for love and 
the world well lost,” would be romantic sentiment, 
regarded by Dolly, as coming under the head of 
idiocy — Dolly who is of the world worldly, to her 
very heart’s core. 

“ Why not ?” gaily. Her eyes are well on his. 
“ We have been good friends always, Eustace, eh ? 
And I am not a stupid woman. I like experiments ; 
they interest me, they even amuse me. Of course I 
know you only want to score off Hilary. Well, let 
us all go up to the northern tower to-night to see 
those stars, and” — she has sufficient grace to hesitate 
here ; but after all Amber and Hilary ar^ certainly in 
love with each other, and it will compromise Everard, 
and no doubt help to hasten on the events with the 
lovers — “there is a tower above the room I mean; 
ask her to go there with you. Not in Hilary’s 
K 19 


2i8 


A LONELY MALD. 


hearing, of course. If she goes with you — well, 

then you take the victory ; if she refuses She 

spreads her pretty hands abroad, and laughs up at 
him. 

He is looking down at her with a silent frown. 

Do you know, I don’t understand you,” says he. 

No ?” She shrugs her shoulders with an amused 
air. You think I ought to be jealous — why should 
I? You don’t love her, I know that?” She waits 
with an audacity all her own for his answer, her gaze 
full on his. 

** What a question from you to me,” says he, but 
his equivocation is very poor. A dusky red covers 
his face; his eyes fall away from hers. “You 
spoke” — huskily — “ of an experiment, that is all. If 
I could be certain she was in love with Adare ” 

“ Or certain she was in love with you ? You know 
it is the uncertainty that makes all games worth the 
playing.” The light, mocking tone tells him she has 
guessed his secret. He draws back a little, staring 
out into the night. In spite of the fresh, strange, mad 
love that has taken him by storm, and has flooded 
all his life to the risk of its drowning him — he is 
conscious of a sense of loss. Dolly, gay, incapable 
of any deep feeling, inconsequent, worldly, has, in 
spite of him, held him in bonds, slender always, but 
firm, until now. And that she should so lightly, so 
easily let him go ! He is essentially a bad man, he 
has done beyond all dispute a great deal of harm in 
his time, but he has his good points too, as even the 
very worst of us have (so cheer up, dear reader !) 
and he had been good to Dolly in many ways, and 


A LONELY MAID. 


219 


had loved her in some queer fashion, and had helped 
her out in some of her extremities (Dolly was always 
in debt), and without demanding the uttermost 
farthing ! Dolly was perhaps the one woman he had 
fancied during his dissolute life — who had taken all, 
and given — nothing, Dolly in her way was clever. 
And — very heartless ! 

As he meditates, May runs out to the balcony, and 
to a chair at the end of it, on which a wrap is lying. 

“ Whither away, fair maid ?*' asks he, rousing him- 
self 

‘‘ We are going up to the tower to see the stars,” 
cries she. ” They will be lovely to-night. ” Gilby” 
— to Grey, who is in close attendance — ” has Amber 
gone ? She said she hated cloaks. Oh ! come, 
Dolly, it will be delicious in the tower, and, after all, 
Tm not a bit sleepy now !” 

‘‘ The stars in their courses,” begins Dolly, glancing 
at Everard, ” are fighting for you. Come !” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


“ Alas ! how easily things go wrong/ ^ 


Up here in this old tower the night is magnificent 
Stars on stars stud the pale blue firmament, their 
brilliant lights defying the darkness. One might 
happily think, although the midnight chimes have 
rung from the stable clock, that 

“ Dull-eyed night 

Has not as yet begun 
To make a seizure of the light, 

Or to seal up the sun/’ 

Even Dolly is a little less vivacious than usual be- 
neath the heavenly beauty of those silent stars swim- 
ming above her in the ineffable blue. It may be 
their mystic charm, or else a faint twinge of con- 
science that renders her mute — who can say? It 
would be unfair to judge her on such evidence, as 
May is very silent, too, and Amber, with arms on 
the sill of one of the narrow windows, her head up- 
lifted, her large eyes rapt and dreamy, has evi- 
dently no word for anyone. Not even for Hilary, 
who is on her right hand, or for Everard, who is 
standing on her left. 

The little touch of calm that seems to have fallen 


220 


A LONELY MAID. 


221 


on them all is now broken. From outside, from the 
stone steps leading up to the first room in the old 
tower comes a yell both loud and deep ! Naturally, 
Mr. McGrath is the owner of it. 

Owen !’' says Mrs. Clarence at once, with an air 
of resignation ; he has evidently fallen on the hard 
stone steps, coming up in a hurry, and hurt himself.” 
Indeed, a second later, as he stumbles into the room, 
he tells them so. 

‘‘ Beastly stairs. Fancy putting stones inside a 
house. Bad enough before the hall door. Well, 
here I am at last. Not missed, I can see, although I 
have been fighting your battles down below. But 
it’s no good ! Nothing would get our darling Lucien 
off to his silken couch. He grows livelier every 
minute. I pressed my best cigars on him — they only 
made him livelier. I suggested brandy, and he nearly 
blew my head off. He wants to see yon^ Hilary ; 
Fd advise you to go at once, as he’s in one of his 
tantrums. What are you all doing up here, eh ? 
Mooning?” 

Everard casts an involuntary glance at Dolly, 
whose face is impassive. Had she arranged it? And, 
indeed, perhaps she had. Who could say ? 

At all events, she does not betray herself. Her 
wonderfully youthful little face, with its lucent eyes 
of simple blue gazing through the window up to the 
lustrous stars, is innocent as a babe’s of any hidden 
meaning. 

Everard’s heart begins to beat quickly. The time 
has come, with or without Dolly’s intervention — 
Why trifle with it ? Five minutes alone with her — 
19* 


222 


A LONELY MAID. 


with Amber! A word spoken — a word answered. 
If she will give herself to him I He jibs a little at 
this thought, he, who, up to this, has sworn against 
lasting charms of any sort But this one creature in 
all the world has caught and held him. 

Well ! but will she come with him to the room 
just above this, to gain a clearer view of the lovely 
stars — that he may gain the one star of his life? 
For the first time in all his self-confident years a 
sense of diffidence overpowers him, that suddenly 
changes to a sense of triumph, as Amber readily, 
happily consents to go farther upwards, by a still 
narrower staircase, to a still narrower room, to see 
the wonderful stars more clearly. 

Hilary below is caught by Sir Lucien in a dis- 
cussion about the rents of the lower farms first — and 
then, as to the chances of making Brian Deane tell 
all he knows of the missing jewels. “ He knows 
everything,” says Sir Lucien. “ I don’t believe it,” 
says Hilary, “ he is false all through. He is playing 
with you,” and so on. Hilary’s manner, in spite of 
himself, is a little impatient, and he has lost the 
power to conceal it. His heart is with the lovely 
Amber upstairs, with the girl who has dragged it 
out of his breast. This thought delights him. “ I 
have now no heart,” he has told himself a hundred 
times, glad at his loss. “ No heart, but she has 
given me hers instead. And what a heart !” All her 
grace and sweetness comes to him now, threefold, as 
he sits listening to Sir Lucien’s violent diatribes 
against her mother and her detested father. 

As he saw her last looking up to the stars, her 


A LONELY MAID, 


223 


pretty elbows on the window-sill, how dear she was. 
Truth and beauty lay in her eyes. Ah ! that is her 
principal charm. Truth ! But beauty is truth ! 
And what a lovely nature is hers ! 

“ She cannot hide her gentleness, 

The happy smile, the looks that bless, 

The face that’s like a flower to see, 

The lovely dimples in her arms, 

The whispered words that act as charms 
To keep away all wanton harms, 

When witches haunt the upland free.” 

Poor Amber! she has need of many witches to 
keep away the many harms that are following her 
to-night, had he only known it! Breaking free at 
last from Sir Lucien, he rises, and, with a haste that 
I am afraid can hardly be called decent, leaves the 
room. 

Now, with mad haste in his steps, he rushes up 
the broad staircase from the hall, eager to reach 
again that room in the old tower where he had last 
seen his beloved gazing with rapt eyes upon the stars. 

The room is empty. No Amber is here now. No 
one is here — it is swept clear of any living thing. 
Dolly indeed had been careful to carry off all the 
others downstairs, when she saw Amber and Everard 
go towards the tiny stairs that led to the very top of 
the tower. 

Something, he cannot define, strikes cold to 
Hilary's heart, as he stands on the threshold of the 
empty room. She had not waited ! It was the one, 
the first thought. It was senseless — absurd; how 


224 


A LONELY MAID, 


could she wait, if all the others went ? but still . . . 
She had not waited. 

He turns to retrace his steps. If not here, then 
perhaps in the drawing-room. It is late, however, 
and no doubt once having abandoned their desire 
for the stars, they — the women — had all gone to 
their rooms. Slowly he goes downwards, and reach- 
ing the gallery that runs round part of the house, 
walks slowly towards a back staircase that leads to 
the halls beneath. 

He has gone half-way when a slight sound in the 
distance behind him brings him to a full stop. 

Steps! Steps surely! He turns, and through the 
darkness — Sir Lucien’s economical mind has ordered 
lights out at eleven o’clock sharp every night — 
through the darkness lit only by the moon, that now 
is riding gloriously in the heavens outside, his eyes 
rest instinctively upon the stone steps that lead to 
the tower. 

A moment he waits — his heart beating madly — a 
moment (is it a year ? a thousand years ?), and now 
through the mists of night, and the strange shadows 
of it, and the faint rays rushing through the central 
windows, he sees two forms come slowly forward. 

They pause. One — it is Amber (in the clear light 
of this unhappy night he can see her face) — leans 
slightly forward. Some words fall from her lips. 
Her companion — Everard, beyond doubt — answers 
her. Another moment — in which Hilary tells him- 
self he is going mad — and then 

Everard has taken her hand, has raised it to his 
lips, she consenting ! A fervent, a passionate caress 


A LONELY MAID. 


225 


on the back of that small brown hand, and Everard 
goes down the principal staircase, leaving her still 
standing in the full moonlight gazing after him. 

Adare can see her face perfectly. Beyond doubt 
there is intense feeling in it — for him — for Everard ! 

The fact that Amber is now coming his way, across 
the unlit gallery, fails to check the devil that is raging 
in his breast. Ah ! last night. How he had admired 
her then, mad fool that he was, because of her deter- 
mination not to marry him until her father’s name was 
cleared ! She had not waited to clear her father’s 
memory before accepting Everard. What a dupe he 
has been ! It was a mere put off to him, until she 
could make sure of Everard, and his immense for- 
tune. And he had believed in her ; he would have 
staked his soul on her truth. 

Nearer, nearer came the footsteps. Quite in the 
shadow himself, he can watch her as she approaches, 
without being seen himself. A cold hateful disbelief 
in all things — in every one — has seized upon him, 
taking place of his late mad rage. As she gets 
within two yards of him he steps forward. 

“ 0\\^you^ Hilary !” cries she with a little throb of 
joyous surprise in her soft voice. 




CHAPTER XXVI. 


“ Ah, yet would God this flesh of mine might be 
Where air might wash, and long leaves cover me, 

Where tides of grass break into foam of flowers, 

Or where tne wind’s feet shine along the sea.” 

Adare is silent. This sweet call to him but em- 
bitters the desolation of his soul. Oh ! lovely hypo- 
crite! And what has he to say to her? How can 
he speak, knowing his heart is broken ? His silence 
touches once at the nerves that are already so un- 
strung. 

“ Hilary. Why don't you speak ? Are you angry 

with me ? I could not help it. I did not mean " 

Her thoughts fly to the upper chamber, where the 
everlasting stars looked down upon her, and where 
beneath their light she had said “ No" to Everard’s 
proposal of marriage. Is it that? Should she not 
have gone there ? But they all saw her go, and said 
nothing 1 How has she offended him ? The pretty 
colour dies away from her half-parted lips. 

‘“Qui s’excuse, s'accuse!'" The words fall from 
him with a bitter smile. “ However, I know I have 
no right to dictate to you what you should or should 
not do. And as for being angry, why should I be 
angry ? We are all free to do as we will. If you 
226 


A LONELY MAID. 


227 


think my manner severe, it is merely that I would 
suggest to you, as being one of my family, that at 
such an hour as this you He stops. 

“ Should not be here,'' interrupts she eagerly. 
‘‘ Yes, I know, now. But they were all here a mo- 
ment ago." 

‘‘A moment! Your moments seem to have flown 
on wings" — still with that cruel smile — “ in the room 
up there with Everard." 

Hilary 1 Oh 1 it is impossible r in a low, intensely 
vivid voice. ‘‘ You must know how it was." 

“ You are right — I do 1" 

“You are mad!" cries the girl with a little indig- 
nant gesture. “You don’t understand. You left me 
to go down to Sir Lucien — you remember?" 

“ Certainly. It gave a splendid opportunity." A 
pause. 

“ I never thought of you before as contemptible," 
says she. Her voice now is quite changed. All the 
sweetness, the love, the dearness of it, seems dead, 
killed ! “ But I have often heard it is difficult to 

know anyone. Believe me or not, as you will, how- 
ever. I went up there to see the stars with Mr. 
Everard ; they could be seen more clearly there, 
and " 

Adare breaks into a low, unpleasant laugh. 

“ Why give yourself so much trouble ?" says he. 
“Why not let this very amusing game you have 
played with him and me come to an end now — so 
far as / am concerned, at all events ?” Grief and 
wrath have rendered him quite incapable of fathom- 
ing the wretched things he is saying. 


228 


A LONELY MAID. 


Amber’s eyes, resting on his, grow larger and 
brighter, but her face is the colour of death. 

I don’t think you know what you are saying,” 
says she, coldly. 

“Ah! Don’t let it degenerate into a farce I” 
Adare’s sneer is abominable. 

“ A farce I” she breathes quickly. What is it ? 
Ah 1 how well she knows what it is ! But is it all 
really over? A little clutch at her heart, that is 
sometimes called despair, seems to choke her for a 
moment. 

“ You mean our engagement,” says she presently, 
having gathered up her courage with a wonderful 
strength. “ There was none, however. That, at 
least, you must remember. And — I am glad of it 
now ! I” — her lovely eyes flashing fire into his, 
her whole air filled with ineffable contempt — “ I am 
thankful that there is no real bond between me and 
— you!' The sweet, deep eyes, so angry, so troubled 
in their depths, are still fastened upon his. Scorn lies 
in their depths. 

“ This is a convenient occasion for you to get rid 
of me,” says Adare, calmly. “ When a woman trifles 
with two men it is well for her to have just cause for 
getting rid, at the last, of the one who is the least 
desirable. I congratulate you on your success. 
You have not only got rid of me without any scan- 
dal, but you have secured Everard, who is beyond 
doubt the richer man of the two.” 

The girl turns upon him sharply. 

“ I wish I were a man 1” says she, slowly, her nos- 
trils dilating. 


A LONELY A/ALD. 


229 


‘‘ I would to God you were !” cries he, “ for then 

rd kill you ” There is such frightful passion in 

his tone that involuntarily she draws back. Amber ! 
What a name for you! — iox you T His desperate 
grief makes him brutal. ‘‘ Why did your father give 
you such a name as that?’' 

'' Why should he not ?’' She lifts her small, beau- 
tiful head and smiles at him defiantly. ‘‘ It was, 
however, my mother's suggestion; but afterwards 
my father said it quite suited me. Because" — her 
defiance now is of the very highest order — he said 
I looked so clear 1" 

“Clear! You! And to deceive me so! Togo 
up there to-night" — pointing to the tiny staircase 
that leads to the topmost room of the tower — 
“ with Everard !" 

“I don’t understand about Mr. Everard! You 
and yours have received him as a friend, I think, 
during my stay here. Yet now you talk of him as 

if But" — with a scornful gesture — “ I care very 

little for Mr. Everard. As to my mother’s naming 
me Amber, she thought of my complexion then, I 
think, not of my heart! You see" — scoffingly — “it 
was almost transparent when I was born ! As for 

what it is now — or my heart either " She shrugs 

her shoulders. A very agony of rage has caught 
and overwhelmed her. Let all the good of life go 
by for the sake of a moment’s revenge upon this one 
human being, whom, of all the world, she has learned 
to love. 

Her air, her attitude enrages him. 

“ How dare you speak to me like that ?" cries he, 
20 


A LONELY MAID, 


230 

catching her suddenly by both shoulders and hold- 
ing her as if in a vice. 

''Let me go!'" Her voice rings clear, if low, and 
without a touch of fear in it. She swings herself 
sharply out of his grasp, and at once walks towards 
the staircase beyond. 

It is done very quickly, but she has hardly reached 
the middle part of the gallery when he is beside her. 
His face is still dark with anger and distrust, but — 
he has followed her. 

‘‘ Amber. Don't go ! Was I, or was I not mad 
to speak to you like that ?" 

‘‘ To" — coldly — think of me like that !" 

" I think so still. How can I think otherwise, un- 
less Perhaps a devil had me then," he cries, 

passionately. But if you will speak — will ex- 
plain " 

I shall not explain." Her face is as white as 
death. 

‘‘ You refuse me one word." He has fallen on his 
knees before her. What is anything to him — all the 
world contains — save this one little slender girl ! 

Deliberately she loosens his fingers from her 
gown. 

" Even one," she says. 

He regains his feet slowly, very slowly ; so slowly, 
indeed, that it gives Sir Lucien, who is coming up 
the gallery at this late hour, sufficient time to see 
him on his knees before her. 

Ha!" cries he, hurrying up and speaking before 
reaching them. His voice, harsh and resonant, rings 
along the gallery. “ So I have found you out at 


A LONELY MAID. 


231 


last ! Great heavens, Hilary ! — are you dead to all 
your interests? Marry that girl "' — pointing to 
Amber with a quivering forefinger, that suggests a 
venomous and a lifelong hatred — ‘‘ and not one penny 
of mine shall ever be yours. As for you — he turns 
to Amber a face black with passion — I regret I 
ever let my niece invite you here — to-morrow you 
shall " 

As if struck dumb by some strength greater than 
his own, he stops. Amber has made a gesture, an 
imperious one — the gesture of a wounded queen. 
Her large dark eyes are flashing, her nostrils dilated. 
She will not permit him to finish that insult ! 

To-morrow I leave your house,’' she says. She 
takes a step towards him, and Sir Lucien, as if cowed 
by the grandeur of her air, steps back a little. There 
is indeed something splendid in the scorn of her 
young face. And before going I beg you to under- 
stand that I have no desire whatsoever to marry” — 
she casts a glance that withers him, at Hilary — 
Captain Adare. He is indeed the last man in the 
world I should care to marry !” 

She turns, and flinging up her head with a superb 
gesture — without another word, another glance, goes 
swiftly, yet without undue haste, to the staircase that 
leads out of the gallery. 

Adare, his very soul on fire, turns to go after her. 
Sir Lucien catches his arm. 

“ Stay ! I command you !” cries he. Let that 

impertinent girl go. . . . Hilary ” As the young 

man flings his detaining hand aside. Consider ! If 
you disobey me now, I shall disinherit you, and a 


232 


A LONELY MAID, 


title — without money. Give her up, boy, give her 
up, I say ! or I swear 

‘‘ Damnation, sir!’' cries Hilary, flinging aside the 
hand that again had been laid upon his arm. “ Do 
you think your money — do you think all the money 
the world contains, could be as good in my eyes as 
she is ?” 

He almost pushes Sir Lucien aside and dashes 
down the staircase — the staircase that has swallowed 
up Amber. But he is too late to overtake her. He 
is only in time indeed to hear the click of the key in 
her bedroom door. 

He turns away. Well I There is still to-morrow ! 
He will sefe her to-morrow !” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


“ Every one is the son of his own works.” 

But the morning proves him wrong. Amber is no 
longer within the walls of Carrig. When she had 
gone, or how, no one knows. And to all his grief 
and self-denunciation is added the knowledge that 
she must have walked all the way from Carrig, either 
to Madam’s, where she was respected, or to the Old 
Mill House. In what cruel haste she had been to 
knock their dust from off her feet ! 

May applied to, knows nothing, and is indeed 
greatly distressed. Shall she drive over to the Mill 
House and see ? No, he would not hear of that. 
There was indeed a latent thought in his mind that 

had much to do with driving over himself, and 

But it would be useless, he knew, he felt — and yet 

A vehement desire (not to be controlled) to revisit 
the old mill, the place where first he had seen her, is 
tearing at his heart-strings. 

Dolly had kept her eyes upon him during break- 
fast. She had come to that uncongenial meal for 
once, and had, from that study of fifty minutes, 
drawn very valuable conclusions. She had not 
confined her attentions, however, to Hilary alone. 
He but helped to the conclusions at which she 
20^ 233 


234 


A LONELY MAID, 


arrived on seeing Everard, who did not come down 
until it was time for fresh coffee and eggs to be 
ordered. One glance at him, one at Hilary, who 
rose as the other entered, and the knowledge that 
Amber had left the Castle, told Dolly all that she 
wanted to know. 

It is with a smile she glances at Everard now, as 
by chance he comes into the library an hour later. 
It is but the merest movement of her lips, but it 
compels him to come forward. She knows he would 
have withdrawn if he could, in any common decency. 

‘‘ So glad,” says she. “ I have been waiting to see 
you quite a long time. Come here” — patting the 
seat beside her — ‘‘ and have it out with me. So you 
proposed to her last night, and” — with an uncon- 
trollable little laugh — she refused you ?” 

Straight !” says he, with a shrug. It is, perhaps, 
a relief to him that she should know, though her 
manner of taking it causes a stab to his vanity, and 
perhaps something deeper. 

‘‘ Ah !” says Dolly. The syllable is a little drawn 
out, but the smile remains. And yet you protested 
to me you were not in love with her. Remember ?” 

To my cost.” His tone now is gloomy. 

You really asked her, then ?” Dolly, who is en- 
joying herself, puts on a burlesque air of being deeply 
hurt. O — h ! Eustace ! And after all the swear- 
ings !” He cannot resist a laugh, whilst it occurs to 
him that as a music hall artiste Dolly would have 
had a great career before her. The impression grows 
even deeper when she suddenly breaks out in quite a 
new* direction without a second’s warning. “ I 


A LONELY MAID, 


235 


knew/' cries she, sharply, ‘‘ in spite of all you said, 
that you were in love with her. Your nose — your 
eyes — your mouth betrayed you. Of course, Eu- 
stace” — with a dramatic little sigh — ‘‘ this is the end 
of our friendship.” 

‘‘ What nonsense, Dolly !” He takes a step towards 
her. That she should give him up — the small, vola- 
tile, but amusing friend of five years ! 

I don’t know what you mean by nonsense !” Her 
face is a picture. “ But to have a man dangling after 
me, to be for ever comparing me unfavorably with 
Another ! Mark the big capital !” 

All at once, with this new absurd little pouting 
mood upon her, her charm with Everard grows 
afresh. An actress who in her own line might have 
achieved distinction, she now takes in Everard, who 
is supposed by his intimates to be an authority on 
such silly subjects as women. 

“ Do you mean that you are jealous ?” He catches 
her hands. The idea of getting away from it all, and 
with this vivacious companion : away from this new 
pain at his heart, and with Dolly, who has been a tried 
camarade for years, attracts him : If I thought that ! 
But even in the first days you would not listen to me : 
Well, now will you ? Your husband’s a brute ! That 
girl was a devil that tempted me. For you I’ll give 
up everything — leave all behind me.” 

“ Even me !” says Dolly. “ How unkind. And 
are you really going to the Antipodes, then ? There, 
don’t grow furious, Eustace, of course I know what 
you mean. But you see / should have to give up 
everything, too ! To leave all behind me, and for a 


236 


A L ONEL Y MAID. 


man in love with someone else. What folly it would 
be ! For you and for me. There ! don’t think me 
ungrateful either” — her voice gaining a careful gentle- 
ness — ‘^you have been very good to me, very often, 
and — I am not likely to forget it.” 

Indeed he had been good to her in his own 
queer way, and — a strange thing in his relations 
with women — without a vestige of return beyond 
her bare saucy friendship with him — which laid her 
open to many animadversions from her world but 
was of a very pleasant nature to him. She soothed 
him when others ruffled, she laughed when others 
stormed. She had become almost a necessity. And 
now one turn of the dice had undone him. For his 
whimsical, mad longing for a child who scouted him, 
he had forfeited a most desired friendship. Of course 
he never knew that Dolly herself had determined on 
the breach between them. 

People had whispered only, but Dolly had heard. 
She had an acute ear for her friend’s whisperings. 
She kept always a very clear head on her shoulders. 
And now, when the decision lay with her of getting 
rid of Everard before her husband’s return (and in 
a way that should prove him in love with another 
woman), she cautiously put him behind her — in spite 
of the fact that for many years, when Fate and her 
husband had been against her, he had been for her. 

He — the libertine of many seasons ! A man of 
pronounced fast proclivities. Yet he had stood to 
Dolly when friends grew scarce — as money dwindled. 
He had lent her sums innumerable (he was very rich), 
without, as has been said, any hope of reward. Had 


A LONELY MAID, 


237 


pulled her (the world kept quite in ignorance of 
these hidden transactions — so hidden by Everard as 
to be impossible of knowledge) out of many mires, 
and left her firmly fixed on dry and pleasant ground. 
So he had done by her in spite of the tales of his 
life, that if told would scarcely redound to his credit ! 
and certainly he had strewed the path of the now 
most ungrateful Dolly with many a rose — and not a 
single one paid for. 

What do you mean ?’' says he, staring at her. 

‘'Not so very much. You see’' — she has the 
grace to colour faintly — “ Colonel Clarence is coming 
home.” 

“ Ah !” His voice has meaning. 

“ Don’t be odious ! Do you suppose I am looking 
forward to it ? He is coming, however. And ” 

“ I see.” 

“Oh ! You can't see as much as I can ! But * 

Well, he will come, and- You have done a good 

deal for me before, Eustace — but now ! If 

you will not keep out of the way when he comes 

back ? You see, you understand? And when 

you are in love with Amber, it will be so simple.” 

Everard, staring at her, gives way to a slight but 
curious burst of laughter. 

“ Oh, you can laugh,” says she, frowning. “ But 
you promise, eh ! And whatever I say in town — 
whatever I write to his sister. Lady Droone, you will 
not contradict ? It is nothing to you '' — with the old 
glance. It is ” 

“ Death to you — like the poor frog ? So be it. 
I am to swear I was madly in love with an Irish 


238 


A LONELY MAID, 


maiden of He pauses, his eyes flash — he tells 

himself his turn is coming now. I shall not call 
her of equivocal birth,'' says he. ‘‘ I shall call her 
a queen in her own right ; a queen of Beauty." He 
He stares hard at Dolly. This tribute to her rival's 
charms should touch her. 

“Yes. Yes. Do. Capital!" cries Dolly, whose 
only thought is that “ the people at home" should 
lose sight of her philanderings with Everard before 
the colonel's return. Else the colonel, between 
whom and herself very little love is lost, might stop 
even the meagre allowance he bestows upon her. 

“ Pile it up 1" cries she, so excited that she does 
not even notice the strange piercing glance of Ever- 
ard. “ Make all you can of it. Let them be perfectly 
certain you were in love with that fool of a girl. As 
you were"' — eagerly, nodding her dainty, but now 
determined little head at him — “as you were! I 
could swear to it. And I will P' 

Everard steps out of the window, and so to the 
terrace and the yard, to hasten up the groom who is 
to take him to the station. The taste of Dead Sea 
fruit lies in his mouth ! He had hoped for Amber ! 
He could have sworn by Dolly ! And now he stands 
here — alone ! He whom all the world had known as 
conqueror. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


“ Things ill got have very bad success.” 

How Hilary spends the hours after his first certain 
knowledge of Amber's going from Carrig, he himself 
never knows to the end of all. But when this short 
and dying day is drifting into a long and chilly night, 
he suddenly goes into the yard and orders a trap to 
be got ready for him. 

‘‘ A groom, sir?" 

‘‘ No. No groom." He will go alone and un- 
attended. He drives, now calmly, now furiously as 
the moment takes him, on the road towards that old 
mill, where first he had seen the girl who had made 
his life first a heaven, and then a hell to him. 

Coming to that part of the road that leads up to 
the boreen, where Amber's little sick boy dwells, he 
springs to the ground and leads the horse up the 
lane, and there gives the poor woman, who remem- 
bers him with the most devout gratitude (judging by 
the prayers she showers upon him), his horse and 
trap in charge. 

Not until he has left her (her honest prayers still 
echoing at his back) does his brain clear sufficiently 
to let him know why he is here at all— now — at this 
hour. 


^39 


240 


A LONELY MAID, 


It is to go down there to the old mill — where he 
first saw her, to his great undoing ! — to revisit, tin- 
known by anyone, the spot that shall always be to 
him the very dearest upon earth ! 

Was he mad last night when he hurled his miser- 
able insults on her? Surely he was mad! What 
did it all come to after all ? A few moments spent 
alone with that devil Everard. He had thought her 
wrong there; but he — was it not who had been 
hideously in the wrong? He who had accused her 
of falsity — falsity to him — to the man she had said 
she loved ! Certainly she had gone to see the stars 
with Everard, but that was only a small fault, mag- 
nified by him — not a crime. 


She hath few faults when all is told, 

If she hath one ; and young and old 
Extol her grace and say of her — 
She’s made of sunbeams and of flowers, 
And dews and dawns and happy hours. 
And music breathed in Eden’s bowers 
When angels play the dulcimer.” 


Stolidly— self-reproachfully he goes with quick, 
yet wretched strides towards that old broken mill 
where first he saw her ; his whole soul full of her, 
and of her lovely, gracious presence. 

As he nears the mill a little spark from the lowest 
depth around it catches his eye. He blinks— stares 
again. Yet surely there is a light, and in that dismal 
cellar where he and Amber had buried her rings, 
that night ! His heart begins to beat. She has not 
gone to Madam’s, then? Poor darling! He had 


A LONELY MAID. 


241 


been nothing but a grief to her from almost their 
first acquaintance. But a light there ? Could she 
be the one who had lit it ? And why come there, 
into the very bowels of the earth, as it were, at this 
dark hour? 

An unworthy thought — dismissed instantly with 
a touch of self-horror — that she is here to regain 
those rings, sends him flying down the slope that 
leads to the old mill. More Wk^ly—far more likely 
— she has come there thinking of it as the last place 
in the old mill that she had visited with him. If 
there seems to be conceit or vanity of any sort in 
this thought of his it must be combated by the fact 
that he judges her as he judges himself Has he not 
come here to-night to look his last on scenes made 
sacred to him by her ? 

And if she is here ? If he should be so wildly 
fortunate as to find her here — in that melancholy 
vault — then in his very body he can prostrate him- 
self before her. Can lay his apologies at her feet. 
Can own to her his grief — his hatred of himself, 
and — heaven is good as well as just — gain her for- 
giveness. 

He covers the ground between him and the old 
mill in an extraordinarily swift time, and gaining the 
dilapidated doorway, steps quickly in, and to that 
hole in the broken flooring that leads to the cellar 
beneath. Very softly he steps. He must not take 
her off her guard. To startle her by a sudden de- 
scent would be a cowardly thing — taking her by 
storm, as it were. And yet to seem to spy upon 
her! 

L q 


21 


242 


A LONELY MAID. 


He shrinks from the thought, and finally decides 
on looking through the hole in the floor from which 
the old ladder is hanging, and seeing her, call to her; 

telling her he is here — has come Oh ! Too 

poor! Too poor! Telling her rather that he is 
here, her slave — her lover for life, even though she 
should elect to despise and reject him ! 

He bends down — his eyes traverse the vault. A 
sharp exclamation almost escapes him. Almost — 
not quite! 

Down here in this dismal cellar Deane is kneeling 
beside a wide opening in the earthen floor. This 
opening is close to the wall, and on the wall just 
above it is painted that small black arrow, of which 
Amber and he had taken such notice. On the side 
of this opening lies an old and very large jewel case 
— very old, and now very grimy — its lid lifted. 
Hilary gazing, too astonished to move, can see in the 
faint light of the lantern Deane has laid beside it 
great rays of light flashing. The missing jewels at 
last ! Good heavens ! How near the discovery of 
them he and Amber had been when they buried 
those rings, only an inch or two this way — and . . . 

Lightly he drops to the ground. So lightly, in- 
deed, that the other man, engrossed with his spoil, 
hears nothing of his coming, until he is almost at his 
elbow. 

Then! 

With a frantic yell, as of a wild beast torn from 
its prey, Deane springs to his feet, and having faced 
Adare for the fraction of a second, flings himself 
upon him. 


A LONELY MAID. 


243 


The latter grasps him in turn. Disgust and rage 
are giving fresh strength to thews and sinews, that 
require little assistance from any source. And for a 
few minutes the two men sway and wrestle and are 
locked in a deadly embrace that means death — for 
one or the other ! Nostrils dilated — lips parted — a 
sway to the right — victory for one — a sway to the 
left — victory to the other ! How will it end ? 

Now a slight chance in this wild wrestling match 
— a loosening of the arms of Hilary — gives Deane a 
chance ; he flings Hilary from him, and with light- 
ning speed draws a revolver from his breast ! 

With a low growl of joy he levels it. 

A s^econd ! a second only ! and then 

But there is life in a second, even for a man con- 
demned. And it is a girl — the girl he loves — who 
gives life to Hilary! A small hand, brown, but 
shapely, flings up the fatal revolver, that would have 
sent him to a land very far away from ours, and a 
bullet crashes into the rotten rafters above their 
heads. The revolver has taken a voyage very nearly 
as high : — It comes down now in a distant corner, 
and providentially does not go off. Amber with a 
little spring goes to it, and picks it up. 

“You — you — you devil T says Deane, turning his 
eyes, now gleaming with actual madness, upon 
Amber. “ Ah 1 I did not mistake you. A devil ! a 
devil 1“ He is muttering evidently now, but all at 
once his mind seems to clear. “ A devil I love !’' 
cries he, fiercely. “And I’ll have you yet 1“ 

“ Go home, Brian,’' says the girl, very gently, 
and in a very low voice. Her fingers tighten over 


244 


A LONELY MAID, 


the revolver, however. She is calm, but looks a 
little broken. Adare moves to her side. 

Those stones, those ornaments,” says he, pointing 
to them, ‘‘ belong, as of course you know, to Sir 
Lucien Adare. In his name I take possession of 
them ! As for you” — he looks straight at Deane 
with scorn and undisguised contempt — I give you 
just twenty-four hours to get out of the country.” 

“ I shan’t give you half that time to live,” says 
Deane. His glance is demoniacal ; he rushes to the 
ladder and swings himself out of sight. 

Amber turns to Hilary with an almost frantic ges- 
ture. 

‘‘Go,” cries she. Go quickly! He has gone to 
the house and can be back in a quarter of an hour. 
He has another revolver.” 

“ Give me that one,” says Hilary. 

“ Take it, but” — vehemently — “ go.” 

“ Well, come !” says he. 

She stares at him, her face growing, if possible, 
whiter. She shakes her head. 

“ Never mind me. But go, you, and at once.” 

“ And leave you here ?” he laughs, shortly. 

“ I am safe enough, believe me. Quite” — with a 
curiously strained smile, that in spite of all her efforts 
to suppress it, betrays the actual fear she is enduring, 
not only for him, but for herself — “ quite safe,” 

“ In the hands of that brute ? Don’t let us waste 
time. Amber. No, not another word. You come 
with me — or I don’t go !” 

He has all this time been busy, digging farther in 
from the already open hole to where she and he had 


A LONELY MAID. 


245 


buried her rings that other day, that now seems a 
century away. Coming at last on the handkerchief 
in which they lie, he pulls it out with the rings folded 
within it, and thrusts it into his breast pocket, and 
fills some of his other pockets with the strings of 
shining necklaces, pendants, and earrings that lie in 
that old and battered jewel case. One tiara of ex- 
traordinary beauty he gives to her to keep, with some 
of the unmounted stones that are of greater value 
than the rest. To think that her father and mother 
were so wretchedly poor and yet never sold them,’' 
is his one great and surprising thought. There had 
been honour even in her butterfly of a mother. To 
carry away the jewel case is impossible, but an old 
and damp bit of paper lying amongst the shining 
stones he puts away carefully. There is indeed no 
time to read it — no time for anything. Deane may 
be back at any moment. 

Come,” says he, catching her hand and drawing 
her towards the ladder. 

‘‘But where?” shrinking backwards. 

“ To Carrig, of course.” 

“ Oh ! impossible. I will not ! To meet Sir Lucien 
again !” She flings up her head with a touch of the 
deepest pride and resentment. “ Last night” — 
haughtily — “ he all but ordered me out of his 
house.” 

“ Why think of him ?” angrily. “ Is he worth one 
of your thoughts. Besides, you need not see him. 
Dolly, May will receive you with open arms. And 
to-morrow you can go to Madam’s if you will.” He 
is speaking sharply — hurriedly in disjointed sen- 
21^ 


246 


A LONELY MAID. 


tences. There is so little time, and to be caught 
like rats in a trap ! Still she hesitates. 

Look,*' cries he passionately, '' I know I have 
forfeited the right even to speak to you, but I im- 
plore you to listen to me now.*’ 

“ I cannot go,** says she, faintly. ‘‘ But you ** 

‘‘ Ah ! As for that ! — Well — we stay, then,** says 
he, with a sudden calm decision. ‘‘ But stand back 
here, you will be more out of the way when he fires.** 
A shudder runs through her. 

“ Oh ! no, no ! Oh ! must I go ?** She bursts into 
tears, but takes a step towards the ladder. That 
“ we stay, then** has struck cold to her heart. Is she 
to be the one to kill him ? For if he stays, there 
will be murder to-night — she had seen it in Brian’s 
eyes — the murder of one or the other ; and loving 
fear lends certainty to the awful thought, that it will 
be Hilary who will be the victim. For one thing, 
Hilary would fight fairly and above-board — as for 

Brian Already he must have gained the house ; 

and in a few minutes more 

With a gasp she runs to the ladder. 

‘‘ I will go with you,” cries she, and with flying 
steps rushes upwards to the open air, that strikes 
cold but full of hope upon her pallid face. It is 
now she indeed who is in mad haste to be gone. 
Catching his hand, she runs by little paths unknown 
to him — by small, short cuts, invaluable in a moment 
like this — through grasses wet with the chill dew of 
night — beneath the cold glimmering of the silent 
stars — across the road and up the boreen, where they 
find the dog-cart waiting for them. 


A LONELY MAID. 


247 


A word to the woman, a coin slipped into her 
grateful hand, a quick spring into the trap, and they 
are driving down the lane, and presently up the road 
at a rattling pace. 

Hilary’s heart is beginning to beat high with re- 
newed hope and joy; his beloved is beside him, 
and with her the missing jewels that will win Sir 

Lucien’s consent to Well — it is too soon to 

think of that ; she may not be able to forgive. But 
although no words have passed between them — no 

** making up,” as the children callit, still 

Great Heavens! What is that? 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


“ Night falls like fire; the heavy lights run low.” 

Only a man running stealthily, swiftly across a 
field! 

The moon has come from behind a cloud, and is 
flooding all the land with its radiance. Every object 
is for the moment discernible. And Hilary, his 
senses all alive, knows that the man is Deane. . He is 
hidden now behind some heavy furze bushes — and 
now again can be seen, keeping in the shadow as 
much as possible, but still visible to the clear eyes 
watching. Now he is lost again, and now the break- 
ing of a branch on the quiet air tells Hilary he is a 
little ahead of him! He had run obliquely across 
the fields, so as to overtake them, and behind that 
low wall over there he is crouching — waiting. There 
is a gap just there — he will fire when the cart comes 
abreast of it. As clearly as possible Hilary sees it 
all, and his heart grows sick as he thinks of Amber. 
To go back is impossible — to turn the mare’s head 
would be the signal for the other to shoot one or 
the other of them — they are, indeed, too close for 
retreat. There is nothing for it but to lash the mare 
to redoubled speed, and to have the revolver ready. 
They are at the gap now, and at this moment a dark 
248 


A LONELY MAW, 


249 


figure rises from behind the wall, and deliberately 
raises an arm. There is a glint of steel in the moon- 
light. Adare, clutching Amber, drags her from her 
seat to her knees, on the floor of the dog-cart, hold- 
ing her there with cruel force. No doubt this sud- 
den action of his, meant to save her life, saves also 
his own. 

A whiz of a bullet over their heads — a flash, a thud 
of metal against the stone wall opposite — a frantic 
dash forward of the frightened mare, and 

They are safe. The good mare, tearing along on 
the road to Carrig, is now getting slightly under 
control again, aided by Hilary’s hand and voice. 
The one danger past, he had had to encounter the 
other, but a runaway horse seemed child’s play to 
him when he knew that Amber was safe, alive, un- 
hurt. Brave and darling girl ! She had not even 
fainted. He had spoken to her, You are not hurt, 
my darling ?” and she had answered, “ No,” but had 
begged to stay where she was for the moment, as if 
movement was impossible to her. And with his 
hands full — a terrified and spirited mare being of no 
small count— he had let her rest there on the floor 
of the cart, with her dear and beautiful head against 
his knee. 

Now, however, the good little mare has grown 
reasonable again, and Amber, almost without help, 
raises herself to the seat beside him. 

It won’t be very long now,” says he, quietly, en- 
couragingly. Not that she wants courage, his brave 
and beautiful girl ! With a miserable anger directed 
against himself, he remembers again all his past sins 


250 


A LONELY MAID. 


against her — his cruel surmises, his contemptible 
suspicions. Here on this lonely road, with nothing 
to break the silence but the sound of the horse’s 
hoofs upon the ground, the kind and thoughtful night 
is making all things even more clear to him — is 
showing him in rich colours the sweetness and truth 
of the lovely nature of the girl he loves. The night 
is a great purifier ! It gives us time and pause, if 
often terrible pain. 

He would have spoken to her now, when they have 
reached the lower road, and no impediment can lie 
between them and Carrig. Would have poured out 
to her words of desperate apology, of heartfelt grief 
and love, but something in her stillness checks him. 
Not here. Not now. It would be to take her at a 
disadvantage. In spite of the wonderful spirit that 
has kept her up so long, and that has forbidden her 
to utter one cry of fear during all the terrible inci- 
dents of this horrible night, he can see that she is 
tired, exhausted, even to the point of fainting. 

jK * * sp * * 

She revives, however, as they reach the hall at 
Carrig, and Hilary having given her into the 
astonished but very friendly hands of May and Dolly 
(the latter having used her, no longer desiring to 
abuse her), he goes straight to the library, where one 
of the men tells him Sir Lucien is to be found. 

“ Well, I have found the missing heirlooms,” says 
he at once, not calculating the result. 

Sir Lucien, with a wild exclamation, rushes at him, 
his lean old hands trembling, his dull eyes on fire. 

“ Found them, boy ? Found them ? That Deane 


A LONELY MAID, 


251 


— that fellow — he has given them up. She has con- 
sented then? Ha! I knew she would. Bad — bad, 
like her mother ” 

Be silent 1” says the young man, with such a cold 
force as checks the hideous, almost insane excite- 
ment on Sir Lucien’s face. “ Have you forgotten 
everything — that it is of your own sister you speak 
— that she is deadV 

No doubt,’' says Sir Lucien, with a sudden 
attempt at his old dignity, '' I spoke too hastily — 
without sufficient thought ” 

Adare stares straight at him. 

I must ask you as well to think more carefully 
when next speaking of your nieces His face is set 
and hard. 

‘‘ Of course. Of course. I see,” says Sir Lucien, 
drumming on the table with quite a pitiful agitation. 
‘‘ As you will. But” — rising and coming towards 
Hilary with his form bent in a miserly eagerness — 
‘‘ the jewels ! The missing stones — where are they ?” 
Involuntarily the old white aristocratic hands go out, 
as if to clutch the man before him, then are drawn 
back, the fingers of one beating in a sort of frenzy 
against the knuckles of the other. ‘‘ Where are they, 
boy?” 

” I have them,” coldly. 

‘‘ You — you 1 Here The fingers now are claw- 
ing the air, and all at once they seize on Hilary’s 
coat. They are mine ! They are mine I Give 
them up — give them up, I say,” shrieks Sir Lucien. 

Would you be a robber too ?” 

All at once the fingers slacken, and he would have 


252 


A LONELY MAID. 


fallen backwards, but that Hilary, catching him in 
time, presses him gently into the arm-chair behind 
him. His face looks so old and yellow, and the eyes 
so dull, that the younger man in haste pours out a 
glass of wine from the decanter on the small table in 
the window, and presses him to take it. 

“ Pray, try to control yourself, sir,’* says he, as he 
sees Sir Lucien slowly revive, and show the keenest 
interest again in the missing stones in spite of that 
sharp tussle with death a moment since. “ There is 
no occasion for this extreme excitement.” His tone 
is studiously courteous, yet it is impossible to alto- 
gether control the disgust that is coursing through 
every vein. I have the stones. They are quite 
safe, and they are yours. I have risked my life to 
get them, and the life of one far dearer than myself. 
I can lay them on the table before you now, this 
moment — but I think I am entitled to some reward.” 

Say it. Name it. Anything !” cries Sir Lucien, 
in a low faint tone. It is granted.” 

Your consent to my marriage with Amber — with 
your niece !” 

Sir Lucien breaks into a low chuckle. 

‘‘ Only that ! Who cares about that ?” 

Still, I want your word,” says the young man, 
slowly. I know if you once give it, you will never 
break it.” And, indeed, in this, to do Sir Lucien 
only bare justice, he understands him rightly. The 
other night, you may remember, you threatened, if I 
married her, to disinherit me. I should care little 
about that for myself, but I owe a great deal — a 
great deal more than I can ever pay.” He pauses 


A LONELY MAID. 


253 


— a sigh bursts from his throat. He is demanding 
permission to marry her, to bestow all his worldly 
wealth upon her, but — will she ever listen to him 
again ? Will she accept his gifts ? ‘‘For her sake I 
ask your open consent to our marriage.^' 

“ Marry her. Marry her,’' impatiently. 

“ You have no objection?” 

“ None. None,” feverishly. If it comes to that, I 
like the girl. She has courage, pride, and she has 
flouted that damned Deane. She has a look of the 
Adares, too. Is that all ?” 

“All,” says Hilary. He moves closer to the 
library table, and deliberately proceeds to empty his 
pockets on it. 

At first, as if bound by some sense of decency, 
Sir Lucien remains silent, if trembling, as each ex- 
quisite ornament is laid down. But when the glit- 
tering mass of priceless stones reaches its end, he 
gives way to a shout of triumph and almost flings 
himself upon them. 

“ At last ! At last !” he cries. And like one pos- 
sessed, he begins to count them. 

No need to go to the old inventory in the drawer 
over there ; he knows by heart how many there ought 
to be of all the necklets and bracelets, rings, and 
quaint old ornaments — many of them, in these more 
modern days, out of use and in want of a fresh setting. 

Suddenly he turns round with a fierce exclama- 
tion to Hilary. 

“ The tiara !” 

Hilary remembering, and, indeed, feeling a little 
shocked at his forgetfulness, thrusts his hand into a 
22 


254 


A LONELY MAID. 


side pocket and draws out the forgotten thing that 
Amber had given him at the hall door and hands it 
to Sir Lucien, who falls upon it rapturously. 

With the shining tiara, Hilary has pulled out the 
bit of soiled and ragged paper that he had found in 
the old jewel case. 

Leaning towards the lamp, he runs his eyes over 
the now rather illegible page. He notices that on 
the left hand corner a tiny arrow is marked. 

‘‘ Thursday ! Such a Thursday ! 

‘‘This is from me, Thomas O’Connell, to you, my beloved in 
heaven ! To-night, that sees you there, I write it, to tell you that 
your last request to me has been carried out. May God forgive me 
if I err. But all things I risk for you. The jewels are safe, your 
brother will never find them. May God forgive him, too, though 
you and I did not. Are you listening, my only dear?” 

Such an absurd little document, yet with what 
terrible, what wretched sincerity in it. Something 
that might be called moisture has clouded Hilary’s 
eyes. Poor unhappy Thomas O’Connell. He pauses. 
Perhaps, after all — happy Thomas O’Connell. He 
had suffered for her, he had committed what most 
men would call a crime for her, but he had loved 
her. And to much love, much is forgiven. 

Here Hilary’s thoughts take a side curve. The 
man had sinned, beyond doubt, in giving that promise 
to his wife in her dying hour — in hiding the jewels ; 
but he had not sold them, even when money seemed 
very desirable. And strange, far stranger than his 
sense of honesty was hers — Amber’s mother, the 
sister of Sir Lucien, the wife of Thomas O’Connell. 
In all her wild wanderings, from Dublin to London, 


A LONELY MAW. 


25s 


from London to Paris and back again, she, who had 
been accustomed to money and its uses all her life, 
who must have suffered intensely from the want of 
it, had still held intact the family jewels that her 
father, in a fit of wanton folly, had entrusted to her care. 

Of such beings was Amber born, and in truth, 
honour must be her heritage. 

It is at this point of his meditations that, drawing 
himself up with a great pride in the knowledge of 
this splendid, if a little barren, inheritance of his be- 
loved, he feels something hard lying against his ribs. 
Quickly he pulls out a handkerchief that contains 
the rings he had so ruthlessly begged her to forego, 
and that he and she had buried out of sight, within 
an inch of the lost treasure, some weeks ago. 

‘‘ These, too,’' says he to Sir Lucien, who for the 
last few minutes has been running his fingers over 
the recovered jewels, as if a little doubtful. 

'‘Ha! That just makes it up,” cries Sir Lucien, 
stretching out his hand to seize them ; " I only wanted 
them to make up the complete total.” 

" I want them, too,” says Hilary, smiling. 

" Those ?” 

“Yes, these! Come, Sir Lucien, you owe me 
something, surely.” 

“ I’ve paid my debt — I’ve given my consent to 
your marriage.” 

“ Ah ! That was the great concession. But” — he 
points to the glittering gems on the table, and back 
to the rings in his hand — “these are a mere trifle 
out of your store, and” — with a direct glance at his 
uncle — “ I want them for Amber.” 


256 


A LONELY MAID, 


'‘Well’' — grudgingly — "take them. Though no 
girl is worth them. And remember, too, no further 
wedding present from me !” 

:jc * sK * 

Hilary, reaching the hall outside, stands for a 
moment thinking of what he shall do next. To go 
to the drawing-room, to chance saying a word to her 
in private there, seems impossible. No ! a chance 
word, when all his heart must be outpoured. . . . 
His soul revolts from it, yet, how to see her. How 
to explain. How to get the absolution that, if re- 
fused, will mean the end of all things to him. 

In his turmoil and distress, standing here in the 
open hall. Fate favours him and comes to his rescue. 

Gilbert Grey, hurrying with swift steps down the 
staircase, runs almost into his arms. 

" My dear fellow, well met,” says Hilary. " Are 
you going to the drawing-room ? If so, will you tell 
Amber that I should like to — that is — er — ask her 
will she see me in the — the dining-room — for a mo- 
ment — a mere moment!” 

" I’ll tell her, of course,” says Grey, who seems a 
little surprised. " But she’s not in the drawing- 
room. You were a little late for dinner, you know, 
and” — here he grows a little aggrieved — " May and 
Dolly carried her up to May’s room when she came 
in, and I’ve not seen one of ’em since. However” — 
with sudden alacrity born of the knowledge that if 
Amber is let loose from the hidden and mysterious 
chamber upstairs. May will be more likely to be e7i 
evidence again for a disconsolate lover — if you say 


A LONELY MAID. 


257 


you want to see Amber in a hurry, FIl let May 
know.” 

He moves away, but before he has reached the 
second doorway in the hall he stops, and, coming 
back, holds out his hand to Hilary. 

‘‘ I wish you luck,” says he. Adare takes the hand 
and grasps it ; whereon Grey laughs the kind but 
nervous laugh of the man who abominates sentiment. 

shan’t have to wish hard/'* ssys he, and, with a 
last wring of Hilary’s hand, he hurries away. 

“ Pellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind.’* 


r 


22 ^ 


CHAPTER XXX. 


“ A rose by any other name ? 

Nay, that could hardly be. 

No other name, my Flower of June, 
Could be the name for thee 


One minute — two — five minutes by the clock on 
the chimneypiece ! Hours — hours — hours by Hil- 
ary's heart ! 

Up and down the gaunt old dining-room he goes, 
now as he turns with his eyes on the door, and now 
as he turns again on the sad-coloured carpet (so 
dimmed with age and knowledge) that seemed to re- 
fleet his thoughts. With each turn his thoughts go 
up and down. 

, If she should come ! (he is now facing the door), 
what has he to say to her? How so debase himself 
before her as to gain a pardon very poorly deserved ? 
If she should not come ! (He has now turned from 
the door.) His stride grows swifter at that melan- 
choly thought. But hope springs eternal in the 
human breast, and, unconsciously, he keeps to his 
belief in her — she will — she will come ; mercy must 
be within that gentle heart ! If she should not ! 
Well ! he has earned his discomfiture and must take 
it. He has turned again here, but even the sight of 

258 


A LONELY MAID, 


259 

the door fails him. No, she is not coming* It is all 
over! 

But he is wrong! Even as hope has quite for- 
saken him, the door opens softly — very softly and 
hesitatingly, and now it is closed again, and now — 
she is coming towards him. 

Perhaps there had been reproach, even anger in 
her eyes — in her heart — as she opened the door so 
sorely against her will — coming thus at a message 
from him, who should have waited for a message 
from her. But one glance at his face — so drawn, so 
cruelly changed — kills all resentment in her gentle 
breast. 

Such a face ! — before its misery, its utter and ter-* 
rible self-reproach, and abandonment, all her wrath 
gives way ; all thought of self is sacrificed. 

One step brings her to his side. She makes a 
little first gesture as if she would have liked to lay 
her hands upon his shoulders, but with a fine re- 
straint stands still. 

“ Don’t look like that. Don't,'' she whispers, as 
if hurt to the very soul by his undoubted suffering., 

‘‘Amber!” he cries, sharply. “You have come! 
Does it mean — that you — forgive ?” 

“ Is there so much to forgive?” Her face is very 
pale. “ I owe you my life ! If you had not pushed 
me down then ” 

“ And I owe you mine ! If you had not come 

just then and flung up his arm No” — Adare 

steps a little backward — an eloquent gesture that 
seems to abandon all right to her — “ it is / who am 
the debtor all through.” 


26 o 


A LONELY MAID. 


"" Let US cry quits at least/* says she. 

Impossible !’* 

“ At all events let me speak !’* She commands 
him with her eyes. “ We are friends ?** 

Friends r 

Why not friends? You will hear me ? I want 
to tell you about — last night.** 

“ Not that/* he interrupts her violently. I will 
have no explanations from you. Why should yon 
explain ? Let ml do that — at your feet !** 

“I” — softly, yet with gentle strength — '‘would wish 
you to hear me. When last night you saw me with 
Mr. Everard — in the lower gallery — he was saying 
good-bye to me. Good-bye for ever! He’* — her 
voice sinking — “ had just asked me to marry him, 
and I — had just refused.** For an instant she lifts 
her eyes to his, the message they send him is, " be- 
cause I loved you!'" Then the soft eyes go down 
again. " He thought it would be an unlikely thing 
that we should ever meet again ! And — he seemed 
unhappy. And — when he raised my hand and kissed 
it in farewell, I felt glad. It was the very least I 
could do for him. If he had said, " May I kiss your 
cheek ?” — she throws back her beautiful head quite 
proudly now — " I should have said yes too, and not 
have ever been a bit ashamed of it ! But he only 
kissed my hand.** 

There is a pause. 

“You were angry about that, Hilary, but** — she 
looks at him steadfastly — “ I thought then, and think 
now, that in allowing him such a farewell, I did you 
no wrong.** 


A LONELY MAID. 


261 


“It is I who have wronged you,” says he. A 
silence falls between them. 

“ Ah, no,” cries she, suddenly. “ I will not have 
you say that. It hurts me.” 

“ It must be said, however ! But I was mad — mad 
with jealousy ! I have but one excuse — a poor one. 
Amber — that every vile thing I said to you arose 
from my love — my despicable, but” — earnestly — 
“ undying love for you !” 

For a while they both stand quietly, gazing into 
the fire. Then, remembering the rings so hardly 
wrested from Sir Lucien, he takes them from his 
pocket. 

“ Here are your rings,” says he. It is perhaps a 
little too sudden. 

She looks at the shining things lying in his palm, 
their splendid rays reflected by the firelight, and then 
shrinks backwards. Every vestige of colour has 
flown from her face. 

“ Sir Lucien !” 

“ He has sent them to you. He wishes you to 
have them.” This is straining the truth a little, but 
he is determined to spare her any further pain. 

“ Wishes me to have them ?” 

“ Yes ” 

“ It is” — coldly — “ difficult to believe. Will you 
put them on the table ?” It is as though she cannot 
bear to touch them. He obeys her with a sinking 
heart. How is one to understand this strange sweet 
girl, who can be gentleness itself at one moment, and 
adamant the next ? Despair gives him courage. 

Deliberately he takes out that other ring — that once 


262 


A LONELY MAID. 


before he had offered, that once before she had re- 
fused. Will she do so again ? If so — ^it will be the 
end. 

Am I to lay this upon the table too ?” asked he, 
steadily. 

Their eyes meet. He can see in hers the struggle 
that is going on between her pride and her — he does 
not even dare to name the other word. Will the 
battle go against him ? Does her silence mean that 

she Her gentle nature no doubt, finds it hard 

to deal the fatal blow. 

Half unconsciously the hand holding the ring 
moves towards the table. The worst appears certain 
now ! But almost as he is about to lay it down, two 
soft little brown hands catch his. One of them opens 
his fingers, the other extracts the ring. 

I want it,’' says she, simply. Her voice is tremu- 
lous — her eyes are drenched. 

‘'You will take it?” His own voice is low and 
husky. “ Amber, take me, too !” 

” Ah ! Fd like to say ‘ No,’ ” cries she, with a 
touch of irrepressible bitterness. “ But,” shaking her 
charming head as if in sad contempt of herself, " I 
can'tr 

In a moment she is in his arms, where all bitter- 
ness dies, and all fear, and all discontent of life — and 
where love alone holds sway. 


THE END. 


By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 


“ My Pretty Jane ! ” 


i2mo. Cloth, uncut, ;^i.oo. 


** A sweeter love story than * My Pretty Jane* has not been written in many 
a day. It is just that, and nothing more. There is no studied fine writing, no 
moral essaying, no analysis of character, — nothing whatever to detract the reader’s 
attention. The writer, Effie Adelaide Rowlands, has an interesting and attractive 
story to tell, and she tells it simply, cleverly, daintily ; keeping the reader’s atten- 
tion on her characters, and never once calling attention to her own wit or her own 
wisdom or her own * views.' ” — New York World. 


The Spell of Ursula. 


I2mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, ^Ji.oo. 


** * The Spell of Ursula’ is certainly a readable novel. It deals with that most 
difficult material, the common-place everyday life that everybody knows. The 
writer invests the simple things of life with a charm which admits her at once to 
the reader’s friendship. In the novel she introduces Ursula, a sphinx-like charac- 
ter, combining all sorts of undesirable qualities with a peculiar power of fascina- 
tion .” — Minneapolis Tribune. 


Faithful Traitor. 

l2mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, ^^i.oo. 



In ’ A Faithful Traitor,’ the author has done something more than to place 
before us the people and the events of an ordinary love affair. It is a story that is 
entirely original in its conception and construction, and it is excellently worked 
out. I'he circumstances are those wherein friendship, man for man, is put to its 
severest test ; and loyalty to duty and principle, woman for woman, is exemplified 
to a martyr-like degree .” — Boston Courier. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA. 


By Florence Belknap Gilmour 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 


LfiON DE TINSEAU. 
l2mo. Cloth, ;^i.oo per volume. 


In Quest of the Ideal. 

’* It possesses distinct interest, and there are not a few passages which com- 
mand our deepest feelings." — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 

‘‘This story owes much of its charm to the skill of the translator, Florence 
Belknap Gilmour, who has translated several other of this author’s books, and who 
has been able to catch his style in a way rarely met with. I'he characters are care- 
fully and naturally drawn, and there is a great deal of dialogue which is bright." — 
Boston Times. 

** The story has a strong, uplifting tone throughout, and the seriousness and 
the crusading spirit of these modem seekers for the ideal, is shared by every indi- 
vidual in the novel, as well as by the reader. The translator reproduces the original 
with a master knowledge. Her choice of words is smooth and easy, and they 
convey exactly the meaning the author meant they should." — Boston Courier. 


A Forgotten Debt. 

" The story reads as if it were a tme life tale, told simply and with none of 
the unpleasant element found repulsive to American taste in many of the latest 
French novels. It is healthful and hearty, and well suited for summer’s day peru- 
sal by old or young." — Boston Transcript. 

" A very interesting novel which tells of life in the French provinces and me- 
tropolis, and also in an American frontier military post, and depicts the local 
atmosphere of all three — a difficult feat, which shows the versatility and analytical 
and descriptive powers of the author. The plot is interesting, and holds the atten- 
tion of the reader from beginning to end.” — Detroit Tribune, 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 


By Mrs. Alexander. 


A Fight with Fate. 

l2mo. Cloth, ^1.25. 

" Mrs. Alexander's novels are decidedly of the higher order. They reflect 
the lives and sayings of wholesome people, carry a healthy moral, and convey 
valuable lessons to enlightened readers." — Si. Louis Globe- Democrat. 

" This is Mrs. Alexander’s best story, and readers of her two previous novels, 
* For His Sake' and ’ Found Wanting,’ will at once recognize this as high praise. 
It is an English story. The plot is good, is skilfully developed ; the dialogue is 
bright, the situations, many of them, dramatic. On the whole, it is a bright, enter- 
taining novel, and one of the best of the season." — Boston Advertiser. 


Found Wanting. 

i2mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, ^i.oo. ^ 

" This author’s stories are always worth reading, and her new one is no ex- 
ception. The heroine is fascinating and noble, and all the characters are well 
drawn, and the dilemma on which the plot hinges is handled well." — Boston Con- 
gregationaiist. 


For His Sake. 

I2mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $ 1 . 00 . ‘ 

Mrs. Alexander is always successful in tasks such as she has set herself in 
this novel, — the portrayal of character in English middle-class life. In dealing with 
domestic complications and the interaction of characters upon each other she is 
very skilful, and she contrives to divide our sympathies pretty equally between her 
heroine and her two lovers." — Charleston News and Courier, 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 


By Louis Becke. 

THE EBBING OF THE TIDE. South Sea Stories. 

Large i2mo. Cloth extra, $1.25. 


** All the passions of humanity are pictured, both good and bad, and the stories 
run from the pathetic to the horrible. '1 here are many of them tragic and all dra- 
matic, and the surroundings are so picturesque that the little dramas portrayed are 
intensely fascinating, often horribly so. We have rarely read so fascinating a col- 
lection of stories." — Boston Times. 

“ * The Ebbing of the Tide’ is a book of very powerful stories. Louis Becke 
must know to the bottom the life of the South Sea Islands. I'here are many touches 
ot exquisite pathos, many bits of romance, many flashes of noble nature. There 
are scenes that one is glad to remember, mingled with scenes that one is glad to 
forget. The style is forceful. There is great intensity, great condensation. The 
style has, in fact, an impress of masterliness, of control. It is the style of a writer 
ready and practical ; a writer who takes us, with a firm guidance, among a strange 
and wonderful people, till we feel that we, too, have seen them.” — Cincinnati 
Commercial Gazette, 


BY REEF AND PALM. 

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE EARL OF PEMBROKE. 

. i6mo. Cloth, $1.00. 


** The stories are brief, pointed, passionate, beautiful, and while unconnected 
in character and place, still combine in an atmosphere of tropical glow which fuses 
all together." — Chicago Times, 

** In its way the book is remarkable." — Congregationalist, 

“ What Kipling has done for India, Mr. Becke can do for the Pacific Islands." 
— Chicago Inter- Ocean, 

" With all Kipling’s intense description and deep reflection, and none of Kip- 
ling’s bumptiousness." — Brooklyn Eagle, 

** The novelty and keen emotional simplicity of Mr. Becke’s subjects are by no 
means the only charm of his book. In his treatment of his themes, he shows what 
may be called the rarest literary wisdom. He seems to be quite aware that he has 
a new article to offer to the reading public, and that this article is of no mean 
romantic value; he accordingly wastes no breath upon talking it up, but, with the 
finest sense of dramatic effect, lets it stand on its own merits. He elaborates noth- 
ing, indulges in no pyrotechnics of style, but tells his stories with an utter simplicity 
that is at once dignified and inexpressibly pungent." — Boston Evening Transcript. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 


By Capt. Chas. King, U.S.A 


Under Fire, illustrated. The Coloners Daughter, illustrated. 
Marion's Faith, illustrated: Captain Blake, illustrated. 
Foes in Ambush. (Paper, 50 cents.) 

i2mo. Cloth, ^1.25. 


Waring’s Peril. Trials of a Staff Officer. 

zamo. Cloth, ;^i.oo. 


Kitty's Conquest. 

Starlight Ranch, and Other Stories. 

Laramie; or, The Queen of Bedlam. 

The Deserter, and From the Ranks. 

Two Soldiers, and Dunraven Ranch. 

A Soldier's Secret, and An Army Portia. 
Captain Close, and Sergeant Croesus. 

lamo. Cloth, ;J5i.oo; paper, 50 cents. 


“ From the lowest soldier to the highest officer, from the servant to 
the master, there is not a character in any of Captain King’s novels 
that is not wholly in keeping with expressed sentiments. There is 
not a movement made on the field, not a break from the ranks, not an 
offence against the military code of discipline, and hardly a heart- 
beat that escapes his watchfulness .” — Boston Herald. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 


By Joseph Hatton. 


WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK. 

A Tale of Love and War. With ten full-page illustrations oy B. West 

Clinedinst. Large i2mo. Cloth extra, ^1.50. 

** The present story is one that is calculated to stir the deepest feelings that 
enter into human experience. It is of the masterly order, and therefore will confi- 
dently command readers even while inviting them." — Boston Courier. 

** Joseph Hatton has written many successful volumes of incident, but in 
none of them has he given us a more stirring romance than in his latest novel, 
* When Greek Meets Greek.’ The characters are drawn with a skilful hand, and 
the scenes follow each other in rapid succession, each teeming with interest and 
vigor." — Boston Advertiser. 


THE BANISHMENT OF 
JESSOP BLYTHE. 

In Lippincott's Series of Select Novels. i2mo.- Cloth, $1.00; paper, 

50 cents. 

It is one of the strongest stories of the year, remarkably graphic in its 
descriptions of the wild and wonderful scenery amidst which its action is located, 
and equally remarkable for the character drawing of the real men and women who 
figure in it." — Boston Home Journal. 

** The author has depicted clearly a true socialistic organization on a small 
scale, which seems as though it might have been founded on fact. It is a strong 
story, extremely well told, and will attract attention as much for its socialistic ideas 
as for its romantic features." — San Francisco Chronicle. 


CIGARETTE PAPERS. 

12mo. Cloth, $1.75. • 

After-dinner chats they certainly are, such as congenial comrades over tho 
nuts, etc., utter in fragmentary sentences between the long contemplative puffs of 
a cigar. The illustrations throughout the text add to the beauty of an already 
attractive volume. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 


By Elizabeth Phipps Train 


rSSUED IN THE LOTOS LIBRARY. 
ILLUSTRATED. l6MO. POLISHED 
BUCKRAM. 75 CENTS PER VOL. 


THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
A PROFESSIONAL BEAUTY. 

** It is an interesting confession, admirably written, and the story throughout 
is delightfully fresh and vivacious.” — Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, 

** The author gives in this handsome little book a charming glimpse of ultra- 
fashionable English society. It has an air of truth which makes its moral the more 
impressive, and the characters are well drawn.” — Columbus Eve7iing Dispatch. 

** This is a profoundly interesting love story. Its plot is simple, natural, and 
life-like — often approaching the tragic. The dangers from the abuse of the powers 
of hypnotism are strikingly illustrated.” — Chicago Inter-Ocean. 


A SOCIAL HIGHWAYMAN. 

** There is a consistency of bold purpose in the book which makes it the re- 
verse of mawkish. It is a kind of modernized Dick Turpin.” — Chicago Times- 
Herald. 

*A Social Highwayman,* a small and dainty volume in Lippincott's Lotos 
Library, is a distinctly interesting, almost a fascinating, story.'* — Brooklyn Dail^ 
Eagle. 

** The J. B. Lippincott Company has issued in the Lotos Library, in a hand- 
some little volume, with illustrations, * A Social Highwayman,' by Elizabeth Phipps 
Train, which originally appeared in Lippincott's Magazine. This thrillingly dra- 
matic story, always intensely absorbing, has acquired a new interest since it was 
turned into a play, and many will be anxious to compare it with the drama which 
bears the same name. The tale has abundant life and movement, and comraaiKls 
and retains attention.” — Boston Saturday Eveniug Gazette. 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. PHILADELPHIA 


By Charles Conrad Abbott 


A Colonial Wooing. 

A Novel. i2mo. Cloth, $i.oo. 

"Those of our readers who remember Dr. Abbott’s * Travels in a Tree-Top/ 
published about a year ago, will be glad to get this new volume from his pen. It is 
a study of social life during the early Colonial period in this section of New Jersey. 
The story is a charming one, and will add very much to Dr. Abbott’s literary 
reputation.” — Trenton True American. 

The Birds About Us. 

Illustrated. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00. 

This book is one of the most complete and interesting studies of the birds of 
our country that has ever come to our knowledge, and must be valued by every 
lover of our feathered friends. Its style is familiar and genial, and it is not burdened 
with technicalities, while its descriptions are perfectly accurate. Dr. Abbott shows 
an ardent love for his subject, and his book will fascinate as well as impart a large 
amount of information. The author has been a close student of birds, and he very 
iustly thinks that what so many authors have treated as instinct would have been 
better described by the word intelligence.” — Boston Home yournal. 

Travels in a Tree-Top. 

i2mo. Cloth, ^1.25. 

Mr. Abbott is a kindred spirit with Burroughs and Maurice Thompson and, 
we might add, Thoreau, in his love for wild nature, and with Olive I borne Miller 
in his love for the birds. He writes without a trace of affectation, and his simple, 
compact, yet polished style breathes of out-of-doors in every line. City life 
weakens and often destroys the habit of country observation : opportunity, too, 
fails the dweller in cities to gather at first hand the wise lore possessed by the 
dweller in tents ; and whatever sends a whiff of fresh, pure, country air into the 
city house, or study, should be esteemed an agent of intellectual sanitation.” — 
Hew York Churchman. 

Recent Rambles ; Or, in Touch with Nature. 

Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $2.00. 

** In the literature of nature Dr. Abbott’s books hold a peculiar place. With 
all their close application they are not too technical, and their charm for the general 
reader is the more potent in that this is so. We all love nature, but we do not all 
care to embark in a study of ornithology, botany, and zoology in order to appreciate 
it ; and in this new volume we find how keen our enjoyment can be, even if we do 
not possess such scientific knowledge. Those, on the other hand, who are already 
students of nature, will be fascinated by the wide and accurate information gained 
for them by the Doctor’s numerous tramps and multiplied hours of observant idle- 
ness. The book is full of touches of humor, unexpected turns, and pungent say- 
ings, and should be perused by every one of our readers.” — Commercial Adver- 
tiser (Detroit). 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 


By Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron 


A Tragic Blunder. A Bad Lot. 

A Daughter’s Heart. A Sister’s Sin. 

Jack’s Secret. 

x3mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, ^i.oo. 


Mrs. Cameron’s novels, * In a Grass Country,* * A Daughter’s Heart,* 
'A Sister's Sin,’ ‘Jack’s Secret,’ have shown a high skill in inventing interesting 
plots and delineating character. All her stories are vivid in action and pure in 
';one. This one, ‘ A Tragic Blunder,’ is equal to her best .” — National Tribune^ 


This Wicked World. 


In a Grass Country. 
Vera Neville. 

Pure Gold. 

The Cost of a Lie. 


A Devout Lover. 
A Life’s Mistake' 
Worth Winning. 
A Lost Wife. 


Cloth, ^i.oo. 


** The works of this author are always pure in character, and can be safely put 
mto the hands of young as well as old .” — Norristown Herald. 

** A wide circle of admirers always welcome a new work by this favorite author. 
Her style is pure and interesting, and she depicts marvellously well the daily social 
dfe of the English people.” — St. Louis Republic. 


]. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA 


By C. F. Keary. 


Herbert Vanlennert. 

Author of “ The Dawn of History,” etc. i 2 mo. Cloth, $ 1 . 2 ^. 


**Tbe book is a refreshing one, both in plot and style/'— Ledger ^ 
Philadelphia. 

** Mr. Keary is an accomplished craftsman, who knows how to tell a story, 
how to evolve character, and how to make the fortunes and fate of the dwellers in 
an imagined world as important to the reader as the fate and fortunes of his neigh- 
bor in the world of sight." — Neiv York Book-Buyer. 

" It is an interesting story, with its scenes laid in England, and with a measure 
of sentiment running through its pages. Mr. Keary writes very pleasingly, and 
his plots are cleverly constructed." — New Orleans States. 

** A thoroughly English story, and quite interesting from every point of view. 
Mr. Keary has given us nothing of the sensational, but provides us with an elabo- 
rate, well-matured story of English life, with characters representing people of art 
and culture." — Elmira Telegram. 

** ‘ Herbert Vanlennert’ is one of those stories that come like a ray of sunshine 
on the murky literary horizon. It is the history of a young man who is not one of 
those impossible individuals one reads so much about and never sees, but is on the 
contrary a straightforward narrative, with its fictional coloring painted true to 
nature. The scene is laid in Europe, and the reader is taken by fascinating chan, 
nels to various parts of the continent. A strong tracing of social realism is very 
palpable, and the book leaves a good taste in the mouth." — Tribune^ Oakland, Cal. 

“ The novel is one of the genuine English character, both in form and spirit. 
There is a bloomy blush all over it that suggests the ripeness of plum fruit. The 
reality of life among educated and cultured persons is turned into a deliciously deli* 
cate romance, with actuality all the while furnishing the foundation. There is a 
luxurious content in reading page after page of such natural scenes and actions so 
naturally told by one whose art is skillful to conceal his art in the task he under- 
takes. Politics furnishes spice in the combination of the elements of the tale, 
Oxford studies lend their adornment to the grace and point of its running collo- 
quies, and the interest of financial fortune bears its vital part in the contact of the 
characters. The university flavor that pervades the whole will prove not the 
Slightest of the attractions it offers to readers who will give their verdict for the 
completeness and finish of the novel. A real London novel it is from the first page 
to the last.” — Boston Courier. 


i B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. PHILADELPHIA 


THE LOTOS LIBRARY 

Folly Illustrated. J6mo. Polished buefcram, 
gilt top. 75 cents per volume. 


A Social Highwayman. By Elizabeth phipps 

TRAIN. Seventh Edition. 

There is a consistency of bold purpose in the book which makes it the re- 
verse of mawkish. It is a kind of modernized Dick Turpin ,” — Chicago Times^ 
Herald. 

The Autobiography of a Professional Beauty. 

By ELIZABETH PHIPPS TRAIN. Third Edition. 

** This is a profoundly interesting love story. Its plot is simple, natural, and 
life-like — often approaching the tragic. The dangers of hypnotism are strikingly 
illustrated . ” — Chicago Inter- Ocean. 

In Sight of the Goddess, a Tale of Washington 

Life. By HARRIET RIDDLE DAVIS, author of “The 
Chapel of Ease,” etc. 

A tale of excellent merit and remarkable interest. It is a story of society 
and official life in Washington, and a very charming love story, entirely out of 
the rut of mere conventionality. 

A Marriage by Capture. A Romance of To=Day. 

By ROBERT BUCHANAN, author of ‘‘The Shadow of the 
Sword.” 

Never has Robert Buchanan, throughout his long and busy career as poet 
and story-teller, written anything smarter or more romantic than this short tale. 

The Golden Fleece. By julian hawthorne. 

In preparation. 


A Tame Surrender. By captain charles 

KING, U.S.A. In preparation. 

OTHER VOLUMES WILL BE PUBLISHED FROM TIME TO TIME. 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent, free of expense, upon receipt 
of price by the Publishers. 

J. B. LIPPINOOTT COMPANY, 


716 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia. 




Item Ilta$tcnl publications. 


IT 


THE OPERA. 

A Sketch of the Development of Opera from the Earlier Times. With 
Full Description of Every Work in the Modern Repertory. By 
R. A. STREATFIELD, B.A. With an Introduction by 
J. A. FULLER-MAITLAND. Svo. Cloth, gilt top, $ 2 . 00 . 

With the kindling interest in music which has characterized our contemporar^’^ life, 
this book takes a place of instant importance. It gives a very full outline of opera 
in direct prose, by an expert of taste and learning, and will enable the opera-goer to 
talk with intelligence on a subject of endless interest. 

FAMOUS VIOLINISTS AND FINE VIOLINS. 

15 y DR. T. L. PHIPSON. l2mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.75. 

I'he Author of this unique volume has a wide reputation throughout England as 
a violinist who is at the same time a student of the literature of music. These com- 
bined qualities have enabled him to produce a book which affords at once a group of 
able biographies of great violinists, and is also a charming possesion for the amateur 
musician and the layman. 

CHARLES GOUNOD. 

Autobiographical Reminiscences, with Family Letters and Notes on 
Music. From the French, by the HON. W. HELY HUTCH- 
INSON. Svo. Cloth, ^3.00. 

“ In the reminiscences. M. Gounod shows himself as a representative of the best 
in French life, — a devoted son, a sincere soul full of good intentions, and generally 
gifted with taste and talent. The essays show kindness of heart, appreciation of 
other musicians differing from his own ideas, and a good idea of the position of an 
artist and of art in modern society. All is easily written without any kind of personal 
effort to do the imposing, and goes sufficiently near the foundation of the subject pro- 
posed to be of use to students generally, and to give a good idea of the personality 
of the agreeable and distinguished author. It is a book which every library will 
naturally want .” — Chicago Music. 


l^roparatiort^ 

ANNALS OF MUSIC IN PHILADELPHIA AND 
HISTORY OFTHE MUSICAL FUND SOCIETY. 

By LOUIS C. MADEIRA. Edited by PHILIP H. GOEPP. 

Illustrated with photogravures and fac-similes. $ 2 . 00 . 

This edition is to be limited to six hundred and twenty copies, and will be beauti- 
fully printed on English deckel-edge paper. 

The aim of this history’^ has been to glean the beginning and progress of things 
musical in Philadelphia, and to set them forth in an interesting light. As Philadel- 
phia was, in its early history preeminent in music, as in the other arts, and, perhaps, 
in all phases of civilized life ; as, moreover, most of the distinguished men in the 
beginning of the republic visited Philadelphia, or lived there, such an account of the 
state of music is equally a history of the art in the whole country. The best musi- 
cians came to Philadelphia ; the ablest composers and performers, willing to dwell 
in the United States, were attracted to Philadelphia. Thus the history of its early 
music shows the high-water mark of the art in America in early times. 

For sale by all P>ooksellers, or will be sent post-paid, upon receipt of price by the 
Publishers. 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 

7t5 ami 717 yfavliet Street, Philadelphia, 




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